Wage Your War
by Della19
Summary: Snakes may kill mongoose, but one must never forget this as well: mongoose hunt snakes too. It's Will Graham's turn to wage his war. Or, here is a fic about omega!Will Graham manipulating alpha!Hannibal Lecter into getting exactly what he wants (sex and babies). A/B/O Hannigram where manipulative!Will goes out and gets his man.
1. Chapter 1

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Warnings: Uh…cannibalism? Seriously, if I have to warn for that it's possible you may be lost. Show level or less violence, much higher than show level sexual activity.

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. I do however own a lovely picture of Mads Mikkelsen in one of his Hannibal suits and my brother that my brother got for me while he was working as an extra on the Hannibal set. You're the best bro (and I desperately hope you never find this particular corner of the internet!)

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_You're a fine piece of real estate and I'm gonna get me some land. –_ Shania Twain, I'm Gonna Getcha Good

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To say that Will Graham is still an unmated, childless omega at the age of thirty-eight is his own choice is true.

It is not to say that it his preference.

Confused? Let him explain.

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Will's mother left Will and his father when Will was three. Will has little to no memory of her beyond that of a vague image of dark, straight hair and sharp features. His father told him over the years that his hair color and the creamy paleness of his skin were a result of her genetic contribution, but the rest of him Will is sure he got from his father.

Including being an omega.

Yes, Bill Graham was an omega, and though he'd belonged to a rather unflattering statistic of the population – omega's who had provided children for their alpha's and then been left to raise them as single parents when the alpha decided they'd found someone better – Bill hadn't been a typical indicator of said statistic. Bill Graham had been an eminently practical, good, hardworking blue collar man. Bill might have been left by his wife for some fancy east coast debutante, but he'd not been one to fall victim to bitterness.

Instead, Bill had provided Will with a comfortable life. They'd never had much in the way of materialism, but Will had never wanted for affection, wisdom, or the quiet support of a parent. Bill had always had a smile for his quiet son or a simple, tidy bit of wisdom stated in Bill's solid, comforting drawl. When Will had presented as an omega at the tender age of thirteen, Bill had been there with a comforting hand through Will's hair and a simple, "I'm proud of you son."

No, Will had never wanted for much.

Except a family.

Yes, of course Will and his father had been a family, and happy in their own way, but that thing – that nebulous, unnamed _thing_ he saw when he had visited his few friends homes and stared covetously at their siblings and their parents, numerous and together and happy – Will had wanted that _thing_.

And Bill, for all that he'd been a good man, had been unable to give it to him.

And so, Will had decided he'd have to go out and get it on his own.

"Dad," Will had asked after he'd presented, too stuck in a hormone haze to realize that the question was insensitive given the state of his parents' relationship, "How do you know when you've met your mate?"

Some people in Bill's position might have reacted with vitriol or anger, but Bill had been a better man than those people. Bill had simply sat back on his haunches, run a soothing hand through his still shaking son's hair and said, simple and calm, "You're an omega Will, so you'll just know son. They'll be this feeling inside of you, like the ticking of a clock, _tick, tick, tick_, just waiting for a _tock_. And then you'll meet someone – someone wonderful and worthy of you – and that tock will be there."

And then Bill had paused, lost in a moment before he finished quietly, but with the most _reverence_ that Will had ever heard from his father, "And you'll look at them, and think, _there you are. I've been looking for you forever_."

And that had been all that had been needed to be said on that subject – Will had never asked again for fear of poking an open wound and Bill had never volunteered – but Will hadn't needed more than that. He could feel that thing his father had said, that _tick, tick, tick_ sometimes, if he pulled himself far enough into his own head and out of the minds of others, and so once he'd been eighteen Will had hugged his father at his high school graduation, joined up with the police force and gone looking for that _tock_.

And yes, Will is perfectly aware of the fact that the scientific term for the phenomenon is _omega imprinting_ – the rush of serotonin, dopamine and oxytocin released by the omega's brain to signify that the alpha is the best possible genetic donor for future children and, to a lesser extent, most compatible mate. He's also aware that not all of these relationships last - how could he not be – and that, as it is a phenomenon found solely in omegas, with no answering alpha response, it shifts the balance of power towards the omega, if oh so briefly. _Mother Nature's one gift to make up for menstruation_, his high school biology teacher had joked.

Will knows all this, he just prefers his father's term. It's more poetic, somehow.

Also imprinting makes him think of omegas following alphas around like confused ducklings.

But Will digresses.

And so he'd got out into the world and then…nothing. For all that his thing - this empathy that the worlds nosy psychiatric minds were so fascinated about – was useful for police work, for getting into the minds of killers and suspects and victims, it was undeniably a detriment when looking for a mate.

Because, well, people were just so…_loud_.

It was hard to examine an individual's better qualities when faced with a steady stream of, _I wonder if I left the iron on, I bet that little omega slut would feel amazing around my knot, are we thinking chicken or fish tonight, is that a split end, wonder if he likes it hard and fast, break that little bitch with my cock _was always distracting him. The lewd and the mundane all swirled into one mess, feelings and thoughts and emotions mixed so as to be nigh overwhelming to someone as sensitive as Will.

And so, through finding plenty of what he didn't need through his time on the force, Will slowly began to eke out the vision of what he did need. He needed someone organized – a simple line between id and ego and super ego – I want and so I take, I like and so I care. Someone with passions that ran hot and consuming, but with control as strong as iron. An alpha of intelligence and wit who wouldn't flinch away when Will dreamed of murder and death – who could put their teeth to Will's neck and bore him down, burrow so deep inside of him that there'd be no room in Will's head for anything else.

Will fiercely buried away that little voice inside of himself that whispered, from a place just below where civilization could reach – the lizard brain of old – _then you need a killer, my boy_.

And then?

Well then Will had gotten shot, and his father had died of a heart attack, and Will had figured that seemed like as good a time as any to throw in the towel. So Will had buried his father, learned how to breathe without pain again, went to university and, perhaps most importantly, started taking suppressants and wearing beta cologne. Will was all for the omega liberation movement of the sixties: he was eminently grateful that his status as an individual with ovaries didn't mean he couldn't hold down a job, but for all that, passing oneself off as a beta was still the 'socially acceptable' thing to do. It wasn't a necessity anymore, and if the second wave omegists had anything to say about it it'd be a dying trend, but for the most part, if you weren't making a political statement, mated or looking for a mate, you were on at least suppressants, and probably wearing a beta scent.

Will didn't have much use for social niceties, but he didn't mind this one. Easier to live this way – no posturing alpha pheromones, no omega heats triggering inconvenient ruts, no slick running down his thighs as he clenched, empty and wanting and _desperate_ – just the easy, bland scent of beta that came from a bottle with a ship on it, and the easy, bland life it brought with it.

And so, time passed, as it was wont to do, and by the time he reached the age of thirty-eight, he'd been carefully resigned to his existence as an unremarkable, childless omega passing himself off as a beta, and quite proficient at just ignoring that _tick, tick, tick_.

And then Jack Crawford had come by his class with pictures of missing girls, visits to crime scenes and summons to his office.

His _occupied_ office.

"Will," Jack asserts, voice steady and level, the voice of a hunter trying to coax a wary animal into a cage, "I'd like you to meet Dr. Hannibal Lecter."

And so, only because he knows it will cause waves if he does not, he makes himself look at this man, whom Jack is springing on him for he can guess what, makes his gaze leave the comforting print of the floor and scroll upwards to this doctor. He makes it past the expensive suit, olive skin of long fingers – musician or surgeon, Will would bet money on it – crests his gaze over cheekbones that look like they are cut from glass, and then, drags his eyes up to, just for a second, meet the answering dark ones.

And then Will just stops _everything_.

_Tock._

_Oh_, Will thinks, but does not say as he sinks into one of Jack's uncomfortable office chairs, stunned into contemplative silence, _there you are_._ I've been looking for you forever._

And then, directly after it, _fuck_.

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_A shrink_, Will thinks later, caught between paralyzing hope, exhaustive anger and bizarre hilarity, having escaped Jack's office and the overwhelming _thoroughbred_ alpha – of that, there is no doubt in Will's mind - presence of Hannibal Lecter, _who specializes in psychoanalysis_.

Of-_fucking_-course he is.

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When Will opens the door the next morning in his underwear to find Hannibal Lecter at his door with breakfast, he seriously contemplates shutting the door in the man's stupidly attractive face. Beyond the fact that Will owes his sleepless night to the man in question – and the sheer fact that it is too god damn early in the morning for this shit – Will is not in the mood to make shrink small talk with the man his body has decided it would like to bear children for.

Also, it is too early in the morning for this shit. It bears repeating. Will is _not_ a morning person.

He has the sneaking suspicion Hannibal is. Then again, he has the less than sneaking suspicion there will be greater hurdles to overcome if decides to pursue this course of action.

But he's getting ahead of himself.

Finally, he lets the man in, more because it would be rude to leave him out on the porch and Will's father raised him better than that. Let's the man fiddle with plating arrangements for his bloody protein scramble – that naturally smells better than any food has right to – and settles into a tense conversation about murder and Jack and tea cups. But Will, for all that he is good at many things, is not good at this – at conversations that matter, and conversations that don't, and this is so far out of the realm of normal anyways, even if he is the only one who knows it – and so he tries to steer them back into the realm of boundaries and professionalism.

"Or we could socialize, like adults. God forbid we become friendly," Lecter purrs smoothly, and it is not quite mocking – more an invitation, a _dare_ for Will alone, if only he is brave or stupid enough to take it.

And so Will, who never really learned how to resist the bait even when he knows it's a trap takes his eyes away from Lecter's sculpted chin and brings them to his eyes.

And _looks._

_Darkness. No wandering thoughts, no idle musings. A clear lake, smooth and calm but Will can see there are monsters that swim beneath the surface. Controlled and precise, every movement fitted to perfection, like a person suit, but Will, Will can see the cracks that whispers and spew dark promises and savage, deep feeling._

_He's fiercely, grotesquely beautiful._

"I don't find you that interesting," Will lies, just to see what will happen, and if Will wasn't on such effective suppressants, the dark flash of _something_ that flickers in Lecter's eyes would have slick running down his thighs.

"You will," Lecter says, taking a tidy, precise bite of his meal, and it is nothing short of a promise.

_What kind of monster are you Doctor Lecter_, Will wonders, forking a mouthful of fluffy eggs and savory meat into his mouth.

It should bother him that he wants to find out.

It doesn't.

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Looking at the body of Cassie Boyle, Will knows won't ever be able to describe exactly what it was that made him look just that _little_ bit harder. Because, well, this isn't the work of the monster they are looking for – their nightmare Wonka and his golden ticket – Will knows this without a doubt. Looking won't help the case – won't help them find the Shrike.

And yet, Will can't help himself.

He never really learned how to resist the bait, even when he knows it's a trap.

The pendulum swings and…

_A shadow of a man, no face and yet, somehow clearer than he should be. A man shrouded in darkness. No wandering thoughts, no idle musings. A clear lake, smooth and calm but Will can see there are monsters that swim beneath the surface. Controlled and precise, every movement fitted to perfection, like a person suit, but Will, Will can see the cracks that whispers and spew dark promises and savage, deep feeling._

_He's fiercely, grotesquely beautiful._

_What kind of monster are you Doctor Lecter? _Will had mused only that morning.

_Well_, Will thinks, staring at the terrible, beautiful _art_ that was once a girl that walked, talked, had friends, had a life, _that answers that question_.

"It's a copycat," Will tells Jack, and nothing else, and wonders what kind of monster that makes _him_.

Will resigns himself to another sleepless night.

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And then there is _Hobbs_, Hobbs and the girl, the golden ticket and _blood_, too warm as it splatters on his face and the rush, the incomparable rush as he pulls the trigger _again and again and again and again_ as the life escapes from Hobbs eyes as a result of Will's design.

And yet, through all of that, it will be the _burn_ of Lecter's fingers as they had brushed his, blood sliding between them as he'd wrapped them around the girl's neck and the _look_ that he'd given Will, shaking and blood splattered like some nightmare Jackson Pollack that will stay with Will as he sits in that uncomfortable hospital chair.

That, and the fact that when he looks at Lecter, whom he knows has killed – brutally, savagely and without remorse - at least one person and likely many more, he still feels that _tock_.

Will goes home alone that night, and knows he has much to consider.

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The first thing Will Graham does when he gets home is pour himself a socially unacceptable sized glass of scotch.

The second thing he does is set the glass away, untouched.

He's going to need a clear head for this one.

Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper.

Hannibal Lecter is also, according to his genetic make-up, his most compatible mate.

_Breathe in_, Will reminds himself, _and out_. Nice and slow, you can do it. Alright.

He knows it's a jump to say that Hannibal is the Ripper, but Will lived inside the Ripper's head for two years during grad school, and so he has the authority to make this jump. Cassie Boyle is not a "Ripper Murder." The Ripper won't claim this one, and it isn't part of the three body cycle. And yet, Will knows as sure as he knows his own name that this murder was done by both the Ripper and by Hannibal, and even in his little corner of the world two and two equals four.

Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper.

Will admits that this certitude should probably make him feel something other than what he feels now. He should feel horrified, repulsed – should have _already_ called Jack and had him search every inch of whatever palace Will is sure Hannibal Lecter calls home for the evidence that he knows is there.

But Will? Will just feel…steady.

Will's father was not an alcoholic, but no matter how many times they moved, Will always found this one fridge magnet on their fridge, battered and worn but still legible and applicable.

_God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference._

Will can't change the fact that Hannibal is a killer, or that Hannibal is his best shot at a family. Will's two choices are: accept it, and plan accordingly, or ignore it, and hope that what Hannibal is planning doesn't bite him in the ass.

Because here's another thing Will knows – Hannibal is planning _something_. No one shows up at someone else's door that early with breakfast because of common courtesy, and furthermore, if he wasn't, Cassie Boyle would be a "Ripper Murder," instead of whatever she is now. Will can't see a clear design yet, though mostly he thinks this is because Hannibal doesn't have one yet. Still, Will can intuit a few things.

Hannibal, if left to his own devices, will wind him up just for the pleasure of watching Will go, and Will can't even be offended by it. Hannibal is psychopath – destruction is in his nature.

The question then becomes, is there a plausible alternative?

Will thinks there might be.

Hannibal is fascinated with him, this much he is sure. His empathy is the source of it so far – this brilliant new toy just for Hannibal to play with – but Will doesn't think it would take much to make that fascination extend just a little bit further. Hannibal thinks he is a beta now – he is a thoroughbred, this is true, but the suppressants that Will uses deadens his scent even to the dogs – and he still wants to take Will and shape him into someone of his own design. If he knew that Will was an omega – someone who he could literally control, whom he could tie to himself so strongly that he'd never leave, that he could bury a living part of himself into and watch it grow into a person that could carry on his legacy – if he knew all that?

Well, that opens a few doors up.

Because here is the other thing about Hannibal Lecter that Will Graham can see.

Hannibal Lecter is _lonely_.

It almost seems too banal an emotion for someone like Lecter, Will thinks, but it is the right one none the less. Something happened to him, something terrible; Will can't see clearly enough, the loss of someone, a sibling maybe, younger most certainly and cannibalism – the other thing that Will has figured out and should bother him but doesn't – was undoubtedly involved. And so Hannibal Lecter turned himself into a sword, into a hunter and then he realized, as too many men do that not all swords can be melted back into plowshares, and so he stayed that way.

Will is not under any delusions that makes the things Hannibal does _acceptable_ – The Ripper swats pests because he can, turns swine into art in more than one way - he is not a vigilante with a heart of gold. These are beliefs that would ease Will conscience, but are ultimately untrue, and honestly, would hurt his cause if he maintained them and went forward.

Because, well, Hannibal is lonely because he has no one who can _see_ him.

This is the great tragedy to art – it needs an audience to live, and as such, so too does the artist.

This is why so many serial killers get caught. Because no one wants to be the guy who painted the Mona Lisa but can't tell anyone about it.

This Will knew from grad school: The Ripper - and by his new knowledge Hannibal - is dying to have someone to tell, to have someone _see_ in a way that won't have him end up behind bars for the rest of his natural life.

If Will offers him that, he knows he won't be turned away, no matter what his own concessions – namely children - are.

And so, there is only one real question left.

Does Will want it?

To say that Will is not overly social is perhaps a massive understatement. He has his dogs, his own little makeshift family, but even Will is human, and humans are social animals. Humans, at their core, crave certain things: the love of a parent, the casual affection of friend, the passion of a lover. A person can chose to be alone, but no one chooses to be lonely.

Will is _so_ tired of being lonely.

Will Graham, in the end, wants what he's always wanted since he was a covetous little boy.

Will wants a family.

And then again, whispered from that lizard brain of old – _then you need a killer, my boy_.

But this time…this time Will _considers_ it. Being bound to an alpha that will hunt for him, that will kill those lesser alphas like the warriors of old and serve them up to him on a literal platter.

The strongest hunter around.

It's everything every omega wants beyond that veneer of civility, in the deep, dark, _primal_ part of themselves, and Will Graham is no different.

It will be, Will knows, the most dangerous game of his life, and he still has the blood of the man he killed under his fingernails, so this is saying something.

But yes, Will is going to go get what he wants.

And, god rest his soul, he's going to use one of his father's teachings to do it. Because of all the things his father taught him, this resonated with Will the strongest.

"Alphas are easy boy," Bill had drawled, staring over the water, a half smile on his face and half drunken beer in his hand, "You just have to make them think all your good ideas came from their own minds. Then you get what you want, and a satisfied alpha, all in one."

And so, plan crystalizing in his mind, Will picks up the phone and dials his gynecologist, propping his hip up on the counter as the phone rings and petting Winston's head absently as he books an appointment for tomorrow morning.

Hannibal might not notice he's an omega now, but he'd be hardly worth the trouble if he doesn't when Will shows up to his first 'not-therapy' appointment smelling like slick and available omega.

Honestly, Will thinks, this has the potential to be great fun.

And then, once his business is completed he sends one more longing gaze to that glass of scotch before finally pouring it down the drain. He's going to have to get used to not drinking after all.

He won't be able to when he's pregnant.

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A/N: I forgot to post this fic here, as well as AO3, and I figured I should finally get around to doing that. That said, the fic on AO3 also has art, so I suggest you check that out. Also AO3 has proper dividers, so I don't have to use WYWWYWWYWWYWWYWWYW like I do here because fanfiction eats my fucking dividers! That said, if AO3 isn't your thing, then enjoy it here!

Also, for anyone who wonders why Will figures it out so fast it should be mentioned that Will Graham in the books figures it out after one or two meetings – he and Lecter are not friends with a past but basically strangers – so it is possible for him to have deduced it that fast. Also, I like the idea of Will knowing and not caring because there is something he wants more than that – i.e. mate and sexytimes and babies - and he needs Hannibal alive and not in jail to get it. I think trade-offs are interesting in what we are willing to gain and what we are willing to lose. Also, I intend this to have a happy ending, and that doesn't leave many options via the constraints of the pairing – either Hannibal the not murderer or Will the morally grey. I prefer the latter. Because Mads has a sexy back when he's kneading the people food (don't judge me).

Finally, OMG I'm writing A/B/O! Seriously how did this become my life? All kidding aside, reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome (they feed the fickle muse) and as always, enjoy.


	2. Chapter 2

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Warnings: Uh…cannibalism? Seriously, if I have to warn for that it's possible you may be lost. Show level or less violence, much higher than show level sexual activity.

Disclaimer: Nope. Still don't own it.

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_I've already planned it - here's how it's gonna be, I'm gonna love you and - you're gonna fall in love with me._ – Shania Twain, I'm Gonna Getcha Good

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No one, Will muses, really likes going to the doctor's office and Will is no different, but this time, he doesn't mind it quite as much. Normally his visits to his gynecologist – a beta with a whip-sharp sense of humor and all seeing eyes – are pretty routine. Will comes in, gets the pipes checked out and gets his six month prescription renewal for his suppressants and birth control.

The waiting room, naturally, is usually the worst part. All those omegas, mentally and literally _loud_ omegas, round and huge and _beaming_ with their fertility had never sat too well with Will, the almost beta spinster. Now however, with his fledgling plan developing in his mind and that ever-present _tock_, Will sits in the waiting room with the tiniest smile on his face.

If it all goes according to plan, that will be him in a few months.

Will can't begin to describe how much he's looking forward to that.

But he can't get too ahead of himself.

So he tamps down that feeling and steps up into the examination room when his name is called, taking the uncomfortable paper dress that the nurse hands to him and changing into it with, what he thinks, is an acceptable amount of eye rolling.

His doctor, who takes one look at him and snorts in good natured empathy clearly disagrees, but honestly, this is why Will picked her. Dr. Watson – "Yes," she'd stated deadpan, the first time Will had shown up for an appointment six months off the force and tired of life in general, "that really is my name. Want to make something out of it?" – reminds Will of his father a bit, with her sharp wit and simple wisdom.

If his father had been a five foot nothing redhead beta woman, of course.

For the record, he wasn't.

Which is why, when he starts the appointment with, "I'd like to go off of my suppressants," with no explanation after thirteen years, she only smiles, cocks an eyebrow upward and drawls good-naturedly, "Is that so?"

"Have you been feeling any side effects on them?" She then asks, mostly because she actually is a good doctor and it is procedural, and Will squirms a little at that one because, well.

See the thing you have to consider is, there are four commercially available types of suppressants. Three of them are over the counter – lower impact, they supress ovulation, heats and, so to some degree, omega pheromones and have very few side effects – and one is available by prescription only. Naturally, the three over the counter ones happen to be the ones that Will is allergic to. Instead, Will is on the prescription suppressant – the one designed originally for the military, which does everything that the other three do but also suppresses his scent so well that without the beta cologne, he'd smell as fresh as an unpresented child.

They started regulating it after they found out how popular it was with pedophiles.

But that isn't the point.

The point is, it also has a fun grab bag of side effects including, but not limited too; night terrors, night sweats, insomnia, unusually disturbing nightmares, suicidal thoughts and even, on occasion, visual and auditory hallucinations.

_Yeah_.

"Possibly all of them?" Will finally says, sheepishly to his doctor's collarbone, not in any particular hurry to see the disappointed look on her face that accompanies her slow, chastising, "Will…"

"The trade-off was worth it before," Will cuts in, before she can really wind herself up into a lecture – which Will undoubtedly deserves, but isn't interested in hearing right this moment, "but now there are…other factors in play."

"Uh huh," Dr. Watson with a look on her face that says, _you're not getting away that easily_, before she asks blandly, "Are you expecting to change your level of sexual activity?"

"If it all goes to plan, then yes, I'm hoping to drastically increase it," Will says, equally as blandly, finally meeting her eyes, and he can't quite keep the little half smirk the thought brings him off his face.

"Ah so it's like that, is it?" Dr. Watson chuckles, but it's a kind laughter, no malice or judgement before she makes a note on her clipboard and asks, wry smile on her face, "And are we interested in birth control?"

"No," Will says simply, and he is certainly smiling at the thought that one brings – the curve of his stomach, ripe with the swell of a child, being traced over by fine boned, olive skinned ex-surgeon's – he'd known he was right about that one - fingers.

No, he is not interested in birth control.

Dr. Watson just rolls her eyes, before setting the clipboard down and gesturing for him to lie back so she can do a quick physical check-up. As she does, she tells him, voice comforting and professional to offset the invasive nature of it, "You're going to go into a withdrawal after taking the suppressants for so long – a barren heat – no ovulation but all the rest of the symptoms of your regular heat. It'll be pretty immediate but it shouldn't last more than a day or two. After that it should take anywhere from three to nine months for your first heat to appear, and they should settle out into a pretty normal cycle after that."

And then, physical done she snaps off her gloves and gestures for Will to get redressed, politely burying her head in her computer as he does. Once he's redressed – hard to care about modesty much with the lady who just examined your cervix – she turns back to him and informs him, "You will be susceptible to rut induced heats again, so you'll want to keep that in mind."

Oh, Will _has_.

This, he doesn't share.

He thinks it must leak through though, because Dr. Watson slaps a list with the telling title _Pre-pregnancy supplements_ into his outstretched hand with a wink and a cheeky but sincere, "Happy hunting."

Dr. Watson, will knows thanks to his little party trick, pursued her mate, a high profile old money beta male lawyer with a level of skill that would have made Sun Tzu jealous. They have three children – he's seen them in her office photographs.

Will hopes to be just as successful.

"Thank you," he says, because it's polite and because he genuinely appreciates it, and she smiles and says, as she makes a gentle shooing motion towards the door, "I expect to meet this alpha of yours at some later date."

"I'll see what I can do," Will says instead of, _Oh, you will_.

No need to jinx anything.

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It's pathetically easy to get Jack to agree to two days off. All he has to do is stutter about Hobbs, and few days to clear his head and Jack signs off on the time before he's even finished speaking.

And well, if Will uses a few omegean appeasement gestures on him – a submissive tilt of his head to frame his neck, a demure tone and gaze – then that's no one's business but Will's, is it?

He didn't think so.

And so, Will goes home, takes his pack out for a run, makes himself eat something – toast, because heat and complex meals do not go hand in hand – and then he makes himself lay down in his bed. From what he can remember from his heats, it's the _anticipation_ that's the worst part. Heat is heat, and Will's got toys for that, the most useful of them the dildo with the simulated knot that he's already set out on the bedside table, but the anticipation – that time when there isn't anything to do _wait _for something you know isn't coming – that's the hard part. It's easier just to jump right into it, and since Will doesn't have an alpha in rut on hand to induce him into a heat – not yet, anyways – then sleep is the next best thing.

So Will closes his eyes, and makes himself dose off into a surprisingly peaceful sleep.

When he wakes up, some indeterminate amount of time later, his body is a warzone.

That _ache_ – that undeniable heat ache, the clenching desire radiating from his very cervix to be mounted and filled and _bred_ – is all consuming, so strong it nearly chokes him as it churns in his stomach and his throat. He's burning up, dripping in sweat and in slick, so much that his thighs slide together frictionlessly as he shifts for the dildo, grabbing it between shaking hands and shoving it, without any prep, all fat and rigid and hard into his aching, needing, _desperate_ hole.

_Ahhh_. Perfect. Not as good as a real alpha of course, all warm and _throbbing_, but next best thing, and his aching hole can barely tell the difference, grasping the hard silicone just as _greedily_ as it would an alpha's cock.

And so, the _desperation_ of heat clawing at him Will wastes no time on something as banal as foreplay. Instead he sets a fierce rhythm, hard and fast that batters his plump, needy prostate with it, and imagines that instead of his favourite toy it's a living cock, Hannibal's cock. Bigger than his toy, heavy and thick and long, with that thoroughbred _girth_ that will fill him to nearly bursting.

Imagines that instead of being alone in his own bed, he's in Hannibal's, with the man himself looming over him, pressing Will into the bed as he pounds into him with that huge, _fat _cock of his. Imagines the look in his eyes, the perfect _darkness_, and how he might look unhinged, that iron control of his fractured, sweat beading on his temples, mouth open to bare teeth, perfectly coiffed hair falling onto his forehead with the sheer _force_ of his thrusts.

And then he imagines, whispered into his ear without a pause in rhythm, rasped in that accent, sibilant and _base_, _"You're going to give me such beautiful, strong children."_

Will comes so hard he thinks he's gone blind.

And then, just because he can, he thinks of that fat, _thoroughbred_ cock and he does it again, and again, and _again_.

It is, needless to say, a good night.

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See, the thing about the omegean imprinting is this. On one hand, it's great. Its evolutions way of handing the knowledge to the omega, of saying, _you want strong, capable children then look no farther_, without all the unnecessary and messy alpha dominance fights. Evolutionary biologists and social anthropologists theorize it came about in response to a shortage of alphas caused by overly violent dominance hierarchies that left the winners too battered to pass on their genes, and that's great, because it solves that problem pretty well.

On the other hand, it's a fucking pain in the ass.

The problem with it is this – there's no proof an omega can offer to said alpha. Sure, an omega might imprint on an alpha, but with no answering alpha response, the alpha has to take the omega on their word. And of course, given that the omega can have a lot to gain by a particular mating – and conversely an alpha a lot to lose – lies happen.

The divorce rate isn't that high just because divorce is easier these days, and that is to say nothing of the domestic murder rate.

But he digresses.

So, to compensate, society has an unwritten set of social norms for courting that, although no one ever teaches them in schools, most people know and follow. An omega will approach an alpha they have imprinted on and declare their interest. Then it's up to the alpha to accept or deny and, if they accept, court the omega. This way, the alpha can determine compatibility for themselves, through providing for an omega, scent marking, and other courting gestures. If the courting falls apart and the pair aren't compatible, then it's assumed that the omega lied and the alpha and omega are free to take up another suit if they chose with someone else. If the couple feels like they are compatible then they're free to mate, marry or pursue whatever life arrangement they chose. It's not a perfect system, but for the most part it works out all right.

The bottom line is, for the most part, omegas don't go after alphas. Even his own parents, failed as their marriage was, followed this trend. His mother had shown great courage in courting the lowly handyman who'd worked at her family's summer home against the will of her old money New Orleans family. That she'd eventually run out of that courage and buckled under her family's will is regrettable, but Will's never been able to resent her for it.

Of course, Will's not one for social norms.

And he has _much_ more courage than his mother.

Will has no intention of announcing his interest to Hannibal in anything so simple as _words_, nor does he have any interest in handing that power over to Hannibal so soon. Will plans to snare the grand puppet master himself, and so Will has to act accordingly.

And so, a few hours before his first appointment with Dr. Lecter, he applies his own slick, saved by him after the delirium of his heat had worn off to his pulse points like the world's most obscene cologne, coating his hands liberally before covering them with a thin pair of gloves, and gets ready to go hunting.

He thinks he's never looked forward to an hour of therapy more.

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In terms of expectations, Hannibal Lecter's office does not disappoint. Hannibal the man presents a very careful image – sophisticated, controlled, a man of fine tastes and the resources to acquire them, and of course, above all else, _alpha_. There is no one, not even the least sensitive beta, who would walk away from even a casual encounter with Hannibal Lecter and not know that the man was an alpha. Will has no doubt that the effect is intentional, every last detail planed out by Hannibal himself to ensure that his person suit is as pristine and perfect as is humanly possible.

His office naturally, presents the same careful image.

The deep reds, the smooth greys, the leather of the chairs and their very careful placement – everything is designed to show that this is Hannibal's domain, that he is lord and master here, a subtle, well accented statement of his power and alpha presence.

No one would walk into this office and mistake who holds the power here.

But Will thinks, maybe, just for a _second_, today, for the first time ever, it's _not_ Hannibal.

Because – and there is no other way to put it – Hannibal has…stalled.

See, Will's been working on this hypothesis of Hannibal. To exude the _control_ that Hannibal does, to create the flawless mask that he wears, there must be an amazing amount of preparation that goes on just behind the scenes. Will imagines that every interaction that Hannibal has is planned for and prepared, every word carefully examined and selected and weighed before they ever cross his lips. As such, Will can guess what he'd prepared to see in this encounter – a beta Will, guilt stricken and fragile about his killing of Hobbs, and vulnerable to Hannibal's…persuasions.

The single, compulsive throat swallow that Hannibal makes at the sight of a visibly stable, omega Will smelling fresh off a heat, as if all his careful preparations just died in his throat is a _beautiful_ validation of Will's theory.

He recovers admirably though, this Will can say for him. There is no signs other than that one, tiny lapse, likely only notable because Will is looking so closely. When Hannibal gestures for him to sit, taking his own seat in one of the two leather chairs, he looks as composed as Will's ever seen him.

Will's going to try and do something about that.

So Will takes a seat on the little Freudian couch with its silly little throw pillow instead of the expected chair, forcing Hannibal to shift the chair he's in to face Will. It is, Will acknowledges, an entirely meaningless power play, but even insignificant victories are still victories.

The flash of something that looks a great deal like _hunger_ that flickers in Hannibal's eyes when Will removes his gloves, placing them on the sofa and Hannibal no doubt catches a whiff of just what those hands smell like, is most certainly a _significant_ victory.

"You…went off your suppressants," Hannibal begins, voice modulated and calm, entirely professional, no sign that he ever did not know that Will was an omega, the kind of entreaty that any therapist might make of a patient.

It is also _absolutely_ not that, Will can tell, _just_ this side of too carefully constructed to be impartial, and he makes sure none of that knowledge – or the satisfaction it brings - is visible on his face.

"Is it that obvious?" Will asks instead, bringing his gaze to his knees and picking up the pillow to fiddle with it, and his embarrassment is not even something he must create.

Will does not do social interaction well. He'd never thought it would be an asset until this moment.

That he is running his hands over the pillow to transfer the slick from them to it, saturating it in the scent of _heat_ and _Will_ is _certainly_ his own design.

"I have a very…strong olfactory sense," Is Hannibal's response, voice toned just so to give the inflection of apology, and if it's true or feigned Will can't say, but it makes no difference really.

"I was on Onestapam," Will says to Hannibal's shoulder, hands still subtly stroking slick onto the pillow, knowing a man of Hannibal's medical background will recognize the brand, "and the side effects were beginning to make an appearance. And then," he says, moving his gaze up to Lecter's chin so that he can observe the man's eyes in his peripherals, "once I was off them I couldn't help but think about staying off them and giving looking for a mate one more try."

"You feel a desire for a mate," Hannibal says slowly, paraphrasing the words back in a psychoanalytic trick Will is familiar with, designed to get Will to expand on the subject himself. But it is _look_ in his eyes, the look of _contemplation_ and _potential_ that Will sees that makes the otherwise futile trick oh so effective.

"I feel a desire for a family," Will says honestly, leaving the pillow on the couch to get up and pace the room, feeling the weight of Lecter's gaze in every step, "I always have, but maybe this thing with Hobbs and Abigail brought it back up to the surface."

"You feel a parental obligation to Abigail Hobbs, for your role in the destruction of her family," Hannibal says, and it's _so _smooth that if Will wasn't looking, if he didn't know what Hannibal was, he'd probably never pick up on how carefully the sentence is designed to wound.

But Will _does_ know, Will _is_ looking, and so he simply appreciates it for what it is – Hannibal's nature.

Will, though, Will has a _nature_ of his own.

"Yeah, a bit," Will says, because this true enough – he does feel _something_ for Abigail, something that he will have to sort out fully at a later date. But then he continues, because this too is also true, "But Abigail is almost fully grown, and she had parents, no matter what kind of people they were. I…" He says, and the pause is deliberate as he casually, in a movement designed to appear unconscious, strokes his hand over his flat stomach, as if caressing a child slumbering within, "want to make my own family."

And then, to Lecter's face, "Is that wrong?"

"One might argue," Hannibal says, so slowly it is nearly a _purr_, and his eyes never leave the gentle motion of Will's hand for a second, "that it is the most natural desire in the world."

"Have you…someone in mind already?" Lecter asks, in that same too casual to be real tone, and so Will directs his gaze back to the floor, the image of casual dejection, "No. But well," he asks the floor, just the right amount of careful optimism not to be suspicious, "I figure I'll never find anyone if I don't start looking, right?"

"Yes," Lecter drawls slowly, letting his accent drag the words out, with something that looks like _calculation_ in his dark eyes, "I suppose that it true."

Will knows this too, is a victory.

The rest of the session – perhaps all ten minutes of it – are rather routine. Will doesn't make eye contact and Lecter rubber stamps him for the field, and then they make their goodbyes and plans for the next appointment in a week with little fanfare.

Will does not mention that he has every intention of finding a reason to come back far sooner than that, but he hardly imagines Lecter would mind if he did.

It's a good feeling.

And so Will goes out to his car, and then he waits, deliberately, one, two, three minutes. And then he gets out of his car and retraces his path back to Hannibal's office, knocking politely on the door.

"I forgot my gloves," Will says, aiming for sheepish when the man himself appears at the door, and waits patiently there, gaze following Hannibal as he moves to the couch and picks them up, and brings them back to Will who thanks him quietly before leaving.

The little throw pillow, saturated with the scent of Will's slick, is nowhere in sight.

On the way home, Will makes a pit stop at the local drug store, a smile on his face.

He thinks now is probably a good time to start taking that folic acid.

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Dead diabetics to grow mushrooms.

Will wonders, just for a second, how it is he seems to get _all_ the weird ones.

Though, it does have the added bonus of acting as his "coming out" to his coworkers, who all take his change in status with varying degrees. Jack gives him a look that might be best characterized as _that's what you did with those two days!?_ But Will can see him make a judgement – Will knows he looks more stable than Jack has ever seen him, although Jack may have some affection for Will, it will always be balanced against the work – and then move on. Zeller and Price – both alphas, though heterozygous for the gene – rib him a bit, but it's not in a hurtful vein, and Will lets it roll over him. Katz – also an alpha – slaps his shoulder good naturedly and tells him she's going to set start setting him up with her alpha friends, in spite of his stuttered protests.

And Alana…Alana Bloom, the lovely, caring beta.

Alana looks…disappointed?

Will concedes that he might have something else that needs to be sorted out later.

But first, murder.

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Beverly Katz comes and finds him when he is practicing his shooting at the target range. Will couldn't exactly tell the FBI that he'd shot Hobbs ten times not because he wasn't a good shot, but because he'd _wanted_ to, and so, here he is at the range. Still, he doesn't really mind her company.

Katz, Will knows, is part of the population that identifies as homosexual. For year's omega/omega and alpha/alpha couples were met with shame and hatred and condemnation and they kept mostly to the shadows, but the growing movement for marriage equality has changed a lot of things. It's certainly not perfect, but they're making progress. Still, Will admires the courage that it must have taken Katz to bring her alpha boyfriend to the FBI Christmas party last year, as he knows she did.

The short of it is, Katz will never be interested in him for anything more than friendship, omega or beta.

It is one of the two reason why he lets what happens next, happen.

"You're a Weaver," Beverly says from a position on his left shoulder, "I took you for an isosceles guy."

"I have a rotator cuff issue, so I have to use the Weaver stance," Will answers back, because he knows exactly what she will do next. And sure enough she does, moving in to drape herself over his back, setting his arm and, though unintentionally, scenting herself all over the sweater he is wearing as she banters with him about pencils.

She is right, Will allows as he takes the shot, it does help with the recoil.

Once she is gone, Will shifts into the isosceles stance and takes three shots, all of them piercing dead center on the target.

Will's rotator cuff is just fine.

His sweater smells of Beverly – of _another _alpha.

He did say there were _two_ reasons.

Now all he needs is an excuse to see Hannibal again.

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When he shoots Stammets, there are two thoughts in his mind.

James Bond was right; it does get easier.

And, now he won't even have to create an excuse to end up in Hannibal's office again.

_Excellent_.

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When Will arrives and Hannibal meets him at his office door to usher him in, Will takes care to step _just_ a little too close to Hannibal as he clears the door. Not so close as to brush into the man, or to arouse suspicion, but close enough that Hannibal will not be able to mistake the scent of another alpha that lingers on him.

The flaring of his nostrils is the only proof Will needs to know he's succeeded.

And so, casually, he takes the sweater off and hangs it on the coat hook on the wall by the door, and takes a seat – this time in the leather chair opposing Lecter.

He's already got his victory.

That in mind, Will let's himself be drawn into a conversation of Lecter's manipulative take on why shooting Stammets didn't feel as good as shooting Hobbs – as if Will hadn't figured that one out on his own – before he poses the unrelated question, "Is there a washroom here?"

"Door just to your right," Lecter gestures gracefully, and Will nods in thanks, making his way over and into the room. It too is everything he was expecting; cold, white marble, hand towels of dark, royal blue hanging perfectly straight and shining, stainless steel fixtures. And so, though he hardly needs to, Will makes himself urinate, and washes his hands very thoroughly, drying them slowly on the towel, checking his watch – three minutes - before he remerges back into the office.

When he returns Hannibal is still sitting calmly in his chair, and when Will sits down again he muses that he thinks God feels _powerful_ when he kills.

Sitting in his car after his session, Will brings his sweater to his nose and takes a long, deep sniff. It smells of alpha.

It does not smell of Beverly Katz.

Will does not even have to let the pendulum swing to see what happened to bring about such a change. Hannibal Lecter – he of the iron control and formidable will – in the three minutes that Will dithered in the bathroom, crossed his pristine office, took Will's sweater off his coat hook and rubbed it to his scent glands, like some hormone driven alpha teen just popping his first knot to erase the smell of another, lesser alpha. And then he set it back exactly so, and waited in his chair, as calm as could be for Will to return, as if the action had never happened.

Will thinks he might know _exactly_ how God feels.

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And well, if Will gets himself off that night with his favorite toy buried in his needy hole and the strong, musky scent of _Hannibal_ in his nose, sweater pressed to his face, that's no one's business but Will's.

After all, a job well done always deserves a reward.

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A/N: So, to come; some Abigail, some Alana, some Franklyn and creepy!Alpha Tobias and of course, some more jealous Hannibal and manipulative Will. Things we won't see; more copycat murders, Georgia Madchen, Dr. Sutcliffe, Nicholas Boyle, the ghost of Garrett Jacobs Hobbs and some other stuff (remember my Will doesn't have hallucinations or encephalitis and I'm not writing the whole season, despite the fact that the first two chapters are episode based). Gideon may make an appearance in Chapter 4. Also, if you've got any thoughts – things you want to see – drop me a comment. I'm a highly suggestible writer – I've written whole fic off of things said in comments to me. That said it's still my vision, so I might not be able to accommodate everything, but if you've got an idea that resonates with me don't be shy.

Also, fun fact. I've written slash, I've done het smut, I've even done interspecies mating fever slash (thank you Star Trek), but never before have I written slash involving the phrase "his cervix" as I am for the porn chapter and this one. A/B/O may be ruining my life. But, besides that, as always reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome (to feed the muse) and as always, enjoy.

P.S: Just to make sure we're all clear: Hannibal totally fucked that pillow. That is all.


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: Uh…cannibalism? Seriously, if I have to warn for that it's possible you may be lost. Show level or less violence, much higher than show level sexual activity.

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. But a girl can dream.

A/N: Please read the stupidly long A/N at the end as well. Also, there's uh, no porn in this chapter. Sorry about that. Also the ending….yeah. That too. *runs and hides behind a big rock*

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_Don't wantcha for the weekend, don't wantcha for a night. I'm only interested if I can have you for life_ – Shania Twain, I'm Gonna Getcha Good.

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When Will gets a phone call from the hospital informing him that Abigail Hobbs has woken up from her coma, he acknowledges that the time to deal with that _something_ he feels her has come.

Because here's the thing, what he said to Hannibal was not a lie: Will has no interest in being her father. Will intends to build his family up from the ground floor, and he is not content to accept any substitutes. That said, Will is also self-aware enough to realize that the affection he feels for her is best desired as paternal. Perhaps it is the last remnant of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, this lingering affection, or perhaps it is organic, built from Will's own soft spot for strays, but honestly, the cause hardly matters.

What he does with it…now that is a different matter.

Will does not see her as the child he so desperately wants, but he _can_ see her in that life. A standing plate at the dinner table, someone to take fishing and teach his own little art to, the fun, pseudo aunt to his children. And yet, that life – this creation of his that he will build on a foundation of blood and bone if he must – no matter how beautiful it will be, will not be without its own costs. Will is certainly willing to pay them, but will Abigail?

Ultimately, it comes down to one question – is Abigail Hobbs willing to play by the rules of his little war – she is willing to maintain the status quo? Does she even have the capacity to do so?

"I remember you," Abigail Hobbs says, eyes wet and vulnerable with tears Will can tell are at least in part of the crocodile kind, accusing, but voice wavering just enough to play it off as unintentional, "You killed my dad."

_Well_, Will thinks, hiding his smile, _that answers that question_.

"Would you give us a moment?" Will asks to Hannibal, tilting his head to frame the submissive curve his neck, eyes cast demurely to the floor to hide that fact that Abigail's barb missed its mark.

"Of course," Hannibal says graciously, the right response for all the wrong reasons – Will imagines, with a certain fondness the scathing lecture he knows Alana will deliver to Hannibal when she hears that he did this – and no one that was looking, as Will is, would be able to miss how his gaze lingers _just_ a little too long on the pale flesh of Will's neck, "I shall be right outside if I am needed."

"So that's how it is," Abigail says after Hannibal is safely out of ear shot, a contemplative look in her eyes, and Will moves into the space beside her bed and sits down, and considers what he knows about Abigail Hobbs.

Abigail, who liked hunting with her father and baking with her mother. Abigail, who always wanted a dog but never asked because she knew what would happen to it if she did. Abigail, the omega who would have done _anything_ to keep her family.

Even lure in girls for her father to kill.

Considering the sheer number of just the Ripper's _known_ victims and his willingness to put that aside in his own quest, Will thinks it would make him an incredible hypocrite if he couldn't relate to that.

Honestly, for the most part, he just admires her dedication.

"Yes, that's how it is," Will says, taking one of her hands in his and leaning in close, like they are old friends having a chat, "And here's how it also is – you acted as bait for your father's victims because you would have done anything to keep your family together, and I shot your father ten times because after the first shot I realized I liked it." And then he pauses to make sure she truly understands the situation she is in before he finishes with, "I admire what you did for your family – you and are alike in that way. And so I want you to consider this - what do you suppose I would do to make sure I can build mine?"

The single, dry swallow that she takes is all that Will needs to know that she has.

And at that, it's like a light switches turns off somewhere inside her, and the manipulative little spitfire flickers out so that the girl who just lost her family is the only one left. The girl who, when she picked up a phone call – and don't think Will isn't aware who was on the other end – had a family and then woke up in a hospital with nothing but a scar on her neck and wounds that not even time will be able to heal.

Will might be able to admire the former in some strange way, but he can feel sorry for the latter.

"I'm not sorry I killed the Minnesota Shrike – I am sorry that you lost your family," he says, kinder than before, and now his posture truly is one of affection, as he asks her quietly, meeting her eyes, "Do you understand the distinction?"

"Yes," she says finally, and Will can see that she really does, this strange, remarkable girl, this little wolf in lamb's wool.

But only a _little_ wolf.

"You don't want to know where the game you're thinking about playing ends, but I can promise you it doesn't end well," he says, and he hopes that she takes his advice for what it is – a kindness, and the most he can give her without jeopardizing what he isn't willing to lose, "You're a smart girl, but you're a little fish and there is blood in the water and sharks in the pond you've found yourself in."

He doesn't say Hannibal's name.

The look in her eyes tells him he doesn't need to.

"I'm not interested in replacing your mother, and I won't offer Hannibal as your father," He says instead, and then he makes an offer that he will only make once, and he maintains eye contact to make sure they are both aware of it, "But, if you were willing to play by the rules of my game, I could promise you you'd always have a place with us. Sound fair?"

And so, Abigail Hobbs looks at him, the little wolf in lamb's wool, the girl who never got to be girl, and Will meets her eyes the whole time, the one man alive that can see all of the things she is and keep looking.

And then, as Will watches, Abigail Hobbs _decides_.

"Sounds fair," she says, squeezing his hand gently, and there is something like _gratitude_ in her eyes that sets off an answering response in him, the feeling so like the one he feels when he saves a life.

He thinks it might be an appropriate feeling.

"Want to let Hannibal back in before the curiosity kills him?" Will asks, the smile on the edge of his lips an unspoken agreement just for them, and she giggles like the teenage girl she never really got the chance to be and nods shyly.

And so, raising his voice loud enough to project but not enough not to be rude, Will calls the beast back in.

That he doesn't come alone is a bit of a surprise.

"Abigail, your…friend is here to visit you," Hannibal says, the hesitation barely noticeable, though Will catches it all the same and catalogues the gesture and its implied meaning before he lets his attention be claimed by the girl that Hannibal has brought, reluctantly, into the room. Abigail's age, all dark brown hair, and pale, wind burned skin.

_Very Mall of America_, the part of him that can still think like Garrett Jacob Hobbs whispers.

_Well_, Will muses, stomping that part back down into submission, _that answers the question of who was next on the Shrike's list._

But he digresses.

"Who the hell are you?" The girl demands into the silence that Will's musings have born, and alright, yes, Will can forgive that one. It's entirely possible he might have been staring at her with a serial killer's gaze, and he can imagine that _might_ be a bit unsettling.

"Ah," he begins to her shoulder, offset slightly by the overtly confrontational nature of her query, "I'm Will Graham."

"Uh huh," She says, blatantly unimpressed, steamrolling over whatever he was going to say next as she asks in a tone that makes it inescapably clear _exactly_ what she thinks, "and just what were you two talking about all alone in here about?"

Will's not sure he's going to forgive that one.

"Just omega stuff," Abigail says, skillfully diffusing the tension with a hint of teenage coyness, before she flashes him the tiniest conspirators smile and continues, a teasing air to her voice, "Like whether or not Will is going to ask out that cute alpha nurse."

_And hey_, a single covert look to Hannibal's direction informs him, _there's that tension again_.

This time though…Will finds it comforting.

Abigail Hobbs, the omega who would do _anything_ to keep a family.

"Abigail!" He stutters out in surprise that is only partially feigned and yet it disguises his fondness all the same, trying to rack his brain for information on _any_ of the nurses, much less ones that would be considered cute by a teenage omega.

Abigail's still unnamed friend, apparently satisfied by the implication of his interest in alphas that Will isn't going to molest her friend takes that one out of his hands as she asks, voice casually vulgar as so many teens seems to be these days, "Who, the cute redhead one? You should totally fuck him, he looks like he'd be dynamite in the sack."

From his peripherals, the_ look_ in Hannibal's eyes makes him wonder if _Hannibal_ is going to forgive her for that one.

The fluttering in his stomach that answers that look – the one that promises terrible, grotesquely _beautiful _murder – is probably not the socially acceptable response.

Will finds he's never cared about social norms less.

"Marissa!" Abigail exclaims, finally shedding some light on her friend's name, and Will makes her tone as genuinely scandalized on his behalf, and Will hides his humor at that thought – that _this_ is what scandalizes Abigail Hobbs – by focusing his eyes to the floor before tilting them back up to Hannibal's chin as he says, sentiment genuine but delivery augmented for best affect, "He isn't really…my type."

The flash of dark, possessive _satisfaction_ that graces Hannibal's dark eyes before it is marshaled back down beneath his mask is a breathtaking sight to behold.

"Whatever man, your loss," Marissa says, all teenage dismissiveness as she directs her attention to Abigail, having apparently deemed him no longer interesting.

_Ah,_ Will thinks, the heat of Hannibal's continued gaze a brand that burns in the best way, _I don't think so_.

This, he doesn't share.

"We should be going, and let you and your friend reacquaint," Hannibal says to the room at large, placing the situation back into his control, and Will demurs like a good little omega, squeezing Abigail's hand in a private, fond farewell before directing an awkward one in her friend's direction – nothing like the smooth elegance of Hannibal's own, all courtesy and charm – before he falls into position behind Hannibal as they head towards the parking lot.

And then, as they are walking out of the hospital, Will catches the barest glimpse of red, and, out of nothing more than curiosity takes a second glance to see if this is the infamous redheaded nurse. He only gets a second to process – blue eyes brought out by blue scrubs, vague All American good looks and pale skin that is offset nicely by the dark red of his hair – before his observations are cut short by the body that _oh so_ casually steps into his line of view, blocking the redheaded man from his gaze.

Hannibal's body, to be precise.

The move is _so_ smooth, _so_ natural that Will barely catches the careful design of it. However, the hand that Hannibal puts on his back, the one that stays there all the way to where they part at Will's car, so light it's hardly felt but with a _weight_, an implication that even the dimmest of casual observers could not miss, he _certainly_ does catch.

It is an hour long drive back to his home in Wolf Trap, and Will's smile is his companion for the whole ride.

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Will's high school chess club teacher used to say that thing about playing the long game was this – pacing is always key. It doesn't matter how sure you are you can win, if you rush ahead, if you push too far, too fast, then you're doomed to lose. Chess, the man had liked to say, was a seduction – slow and steady wins the race.

It's advice that Will finds especially pertinent these days.

Of course, Will's high school chess club teacher also liked to say that chess was the most strategically challenging game in the world. And, with all due respect to Mr. Miller, Will has to say the man was wrong on that front.

Will's playing sex chicken with the Chesapeake Ripper, and he's playing for keeps.

_This_ is the most strategically challenging game in the world.

Still, it should be mentioned, Will was _killer_ at chess.

Pardon the pun.

That in mind, Will amps down his campaign a bit in the coming weeks. Not a full stop, of course, not when he's made such inspiring progress already, but he plays it especially subtle and low key. A subtle tilt of his head to frame the soft meat of his neck, a demure glance here and there and the occasional deferment to Hannibal's judgement without question – all classic omegean appeasement gestures – are all he allows himself. No more rival alpha scents on his clothes, no slick staining Hannibal's belongings – not even the new little throw pillow that sits on the Freudian couch, its predecessor's absence never mentioned or acknowledged in their sessions.

Given what Will did with his sweater, he only hopes Hannibal similarly _enjoyed_ that pillow.

And so this strategy - designed, as most omegean mannerisms are to get the alpha to instigate behaviours – is the one he rides through the case with the Mother and her Lost Boys, this terrible, tragic little family, something that, considering the goal of his own endeavour, stirs up some mixed emotions in Will.

Will cannot fault her desire, can even understand it, but he has little sympathy for her chosen method of execution.

Things you steal never really belong to you – only things you fight for, things you _earn_ do.

Will plans to earn his family fair and square.

Hannibal shows up at the crime scene with a single thermos of handmade black 'chicken' – this, Will strongly doubts – soup, just enough for Will alone. "Silkie chicken in a broth, good for that cough you are trying to hide," Hannibal says, eyes slyly pleased as he passes off his stereotypical and yet solely unique alpha courting gift off as an act of medicinal friendship. And then he watches Will's mouth as he takes every sip with a look - that _just_ peeks out through a crack in the mask - so _primal_ that it makes Will want to cant his ass up and _present_ in front of all of his colleagues, a dead body and thirty assorted strangers.

Will thinks the 'chicken' might have had red hair.

The rewards of patience have never tasted better.

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And then, because why the hell not, as soon as they close that case, Will's time and attention is rapidly snapped up by someone who has decided that snow angels are for pussies and has skipped right to corpse angels.

Seriously though, _all_ the weird ones.

Will is starting to wonder if there's something in the water around here.

But, for all he jokes – in the confines of his own head, because he knows his particular humor would go over like a lead balloon if he ever voiced it – the case does leave him feeling a bit drained. Will's fully recovered from the damage that the suppressants did, but he's still just as vulnerable to sleep deprivation and overworking himself as the next guy. And so, after they close the Angel Maker case, Will comes home, feeds his dogs and then falls face first into his bed for a long needed rest.

Consequently, the next morning when Alana Bloom opens his door after knocking several times and calling his name, she is met not by Will, but by a racoon skittering across the toes of her shoes with six dogs hot on its heels.

Will, who by this time has managed to drag himself out of bed and shuffle to the door, admits that the noise she makes – somewhere between a startled yelp and a terrified squeal – that would be ridiculous on anyone else, is unreasonably adorable on her.

"I appear to have racoons living in my chimney," is what Will ends up saying instead of hello, and the look she sends him, a marriage between shock and _no shit Sherlock_, before she responds, uncharacteristically shrill though perhaps characteristically dry, "You don't say!," only serves to make her seem cuter.

"Really fast racoons apparently," Will replies bemusedly, staring out across his yard at his pack – minus Winston, who stands beside him and allows himself to be petted, himself seemingly looking out at the pack with an expression that Will thinks might be the canine equivalent of _morons_ – who are_ still_ chasing after that elusive raccoon.

"Want to help me round up my dogs?" Will asks, shifting his attention back to Alana with a little half smile, and instead of a verbal response, he is met with a kind, but rather pointed look from Alana at his legs.

His very _bare_ legs.

_Right_. He knew he was forgetting _something_.

"Right after I go put on some pants," Will says, and he knows that the tiniest flash of disappointment that runs through her eyes at the thought means the time to deal with that other _something_ is soon to be at hand.

But first, pants.

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Rounding up the dogs turns out to be an easy enough endeavour, as by that point the raccoon has long escaped, adding further proof to the fact that Will's dogs are all loveable, fantastic _marshmallows_, and so after a brief walk Will finds himself inviting Alana Bloom into his home for a talk he's not sure how to have.

Given how truly dismissal Will knows he is at even casual conversation, he figures he might as well stall with a polite convention like an offer of a beverage. And so, knowing that his fridge is sorely lacking in variety, Will asks, "You want coffee or something?," already turned towards the cupboard to reach for a mug, and this is why Alana Bloom, whom he has several inches and probably a weight class on, is able to take him by surprise, crowd him up against his counter and kiss him with everything she is.

And, just for a second, Will let's himself _imagine_, and kisses her back.

Imagines that he is that beta that he pretended to be for so many years, and that he could have_ this_. Alana Bloom of the lovely heart and the lovely soul, and a nice easy life of smiles and contentment filled with children and dogs. Imagines that his cock - a perfectly respectable six inches, no matter what Hollywood would have you believe with their omega cocks are tiny nonsense – is capable of producing seed that could take root in this beautiful women and create children with brown curls and Alana's kind eyes.

For a second, Will imagines, and it is a _lovely_ thing he sees.

But only for a second.

Because the inescapable truth of it is, Will _isn't_ that beta. Will is an omega, and the things Will wants are the wants of an omega – a mate, a thick cock with a sizable knot, claiming teeth at his neck and the heaviness of children - and cannot be given to him by a female beta.

They can only be given to him by an alpha.

By _Hannibal_.

And so Will Graham lets himself have that second, a compensation for the lovely thing that he is going to turn away in favor of the _hideously beautiful_ thing he is going to build to get what he _needs_, and then the second ends, and so too does the kiss as Will pulls away gently, placing his hands on her hips and directing her carefully backwards.

"I just…I've always been interested in you but you weren't well, and then suddenly you _were_ but you were an _omega_ and I know some omegas prefer betas and I would have regretted it the rest of my life if I hadn't at least tried," Alana rushes out, all in one breath, as if she expects Will to have something brilliant to say that would merit his interruption instead of the absolute _nothing_ that is running through his mind right now.

And then, in the silence Will meets her eyes, and to his absolute horror there are tears there, just in the corners, and Will can't manage anything more than an achingly sorrow filled, "Oh Alana…," rendered utterly helpless by the sight that moisture in her eyes.

"There's someone isn't there?" She says, the always clever Alana, and it is not quite a question but neither is it an accusation, "An alpha that's…caught your eye."

"Alana…,"he says, helpless again, unable to let Hannibal's name slip from his lips for fear of what damage she might do to his progress in her good-natured protective rage, but also equally unwilling to let this lovely woman think that this is somehow a fault of _hers_.

"No it's alright, I understand – you're an _omega_," Alana says, like that's the answer to everything, breaking a little bit on that last word, and in the most basic way she entirely right.

That he lets her believe that's entirely it is perhaps an act of cowardice, but faced with those tears, Will thinks it's the action that men far braver than he would take as well.

"If I was that man you thought I was – that beta man – wild horses couldn't have kept me away from you," he says finally, meeting her eyes so he knows she knows he means it, and if it is kind it is only because it is the truth, before he shrugs his shoulders in helpless apology, "But I'm not that man,"

"I really do understand Will, and I'm happy for you, because I've never seen you this stable in your life, and I'd never begrudge you anyone who did that to you," Alana finally says, and Will can see that she truly _means_ it, this remarkable woman, before she quips, with a self-deprecating air, "Doesn't mean I can't wallow in a little disappointment though does it?"

"No, I suppose not," Will says, awkwardly, and where another man might make a funny quip about being flattered Will can only manage the blurted query, "Friends?"

"Always," Alana says, heartfelt and sincere, and Will takes her hand in his and squeezes it gently, and for a second his chest hurts with the weight of the _miraculous_ thing he is sacrificing on the altar that is his plans for his family.

But only for a second.

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For a second, after Alana Bloom has left his home, Will sits in his kitchen and considers not telling Hannibal about Alana's visit. One the one hand Will knows that, if played right, this could be just the push he needs to move this little campaign of to the next level, and he didn't even have to create this. It was just dropped in his lap with a big tempting red bow on it, just _daring_ him to pull it open piece by piece.

And yet, on the other hand Will also knows that Alana – kind, lovely Alana with her warm eyes and warm heart – deserves more than being a battleground in a war she doesn't even know is being waged. Alana's only crime is caring about him, and she doesn't deserve whatever punishment Hannibal might deem worthy of that. Will doesn't think that Hannibal will kill her for it – he can tell that Hannibal does not lie when he calls Alana a friend, whatever that terms means to him – but still, he is not sure if the risk is worth the possible reward.

For a second, he considers not telling Hannibal.

"Alana Bloom kissed me," Will says as soon as Hannibal opens the door to his home to greet his unexpected visitor.

But only for a second.

Will cares for Alana, but this reward is worth _any_ risk.

And _oh_, what a reward it is, because at Will's words Hannibal's pristine mask slips for a second and even without letting the pendulum swing Will can see _exactly _what Hannibal is thinking.

Sees Hannibal grab him by his nape and _drag_ him into the house, sees him loose his teeth up Will's neck, a claiming necklace of bruises that Will would never be able to hide no matter how many scarves he wore. Sees him _rend_ the seams of Will's cheap flannel to get to the skin underneath, licking and _nipping_ at the skin exposed until Will's body was the story of Hannibal's _conquest_, the ink broken blood vessels and bruises. Sees Hannibal _rip_ open the fly of his own suit, ruining the tailoring in his haste to free his cock and sees Hannibal lay him out on the nearest flat surface and make him _take_ that _fat_, _thoroughbred_ cock, driving it into Will's _soaking_, _needy_ hole like an animal and _fuck _him until they couldn't tell where one of them started and the other one ended.

For a second, Will _sees_ and it is _glorious_.

But only for a second.

Because then…he sees the monster recede, and the person suit return, and instead of feeling disappointed as he might have expected, Will just feels…_satisfied_.

Hannibal Lecter is playing a long game as well.

He thinks that bodes well for their future.

After all, half an arch cannot stand.

"Well," Hannibal says, as calm and unaffected as if Will had just announced the weather to him, impeccable mask firmly back in place, "come in."

Oh, it is so _on_.

Hannibal leads him to the kitchen, because of course he does; the kitchen is the heart of his house and the seat of his power, and so Will props his hip up on one of Hannibal's expensive counter tops and helps himself to a front row seat for the show as he watches the man himself remove two of some kind of pastry from his oven.

"I hope I didn't intrude on you and a guest," Will says, though it is at best an empty platitude as Will's nose paired with the sterile cleanness of Hannibal's house is enough to tell him there hasn't been anyone in this home but himself and Hannibal all day. Still, Will has noticed that Hannibal appreciates the effort of social niceties, and given that Will hopes to reap some _appreciation_ from Hannibal himself, this is the least he can give.

"No, I always make enough for two," Hannibal says, hands deft and graceful as they plate up whatever it is he is making, placing fresh fruit and delicate cream with a flourish that Will best characterizes as _peacocking_, "I often find myself with unexpected guests, and so one learns to be prepared."

And then those dark, dark eyes lift to meet and _pin_ Will's own and, without a change in that calm, casual tone, as he pours sauce as red as blood onto the plate, "And how _did_ it feel to kiss Alana Bloom?"

And _oh_, the things that live in those eyes that are waiting to hear the answer to that question are _monstrously beautiful_ indeed.

_Tread very carefully from here,_ Will's lizard brain whispers to him.

"She's lovely and sweet and very kissable," Will says, because this is true enough, but because he only wants to do_ enough_ damage, he tampers it by immediately following it up with, "But it…_she_ wasn't what I wanted. I want…someone who can give me a family," Will says quietly, the pause careful and oh so deliberate, the barest implication of a name and the words, _I want an alpha_ lie between the spaces of what's he's said, unsaid but from the _look_ in Hannibal's eyes certainly not unheard.

The monster in those eyes is _very_ happy.

"Well, the first step in knowing what we want is understanding what we do not," Hannibal says calmly, the smooth, professional tone of a therapist only betrayed by Will's empathy. "I'm glad you came to me with this Will," Hannibal says, voice softer, designed to lure trust and for all that the tone is an artifice Will can tell that the sentiment is entirely genuine as Hannibal finishes, dropping the baited hook into the water, "I want you to feel comfortable sharing these things with me."

"I do," says Will Graham, truthfully enough, eyes abashedly lowered to hide the fact that he is the man who sold Hannibal that bait.

"Good," Hannibal purrs, and only a lifetime of self-restraint keeps the first hint of slick from dribbling down Will's thighs at the_ promises_ in that single word.

_Slow and steady_, after all.

"Eat your pudding," Hannibal commands gently, passing him the plate with flourish and Will tilts his head down to frame the pale curve of his neck and does, like a good little omega. And so he takes a bite of what he assumes must some kind of bread pudding, and as he does the taste of Alana Bloom wilts on his tongue, no match for the strong, savoury sweetness of Hannibal's creation, garnished with Will knows not _who._

The gleaming darkness that lingers in Hannibal's fathomless eyes tells Will that was _exactly_ his intention.

That night Will goes to sleep, and dreams of what other _intentions_ Hannibal might have.

They are not all good dreams.

But they are all _beautiful_.

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When Will wakes up in the morning, the first thing he smells is Hannibal.

_Everywhere_.

The smell is so ever present, so inescapable that Will actually checks the house twice to make sure that he hasn't missed the man himself lurking in the shadows somewhere. And then, once he is sure that he is alone – save for seven hungry dogs – he goes to his kitchen, feeds his pack, and then stands, and _thinks._

Omegas, typically speaking, have a much weaker sense of smell than alphas, though certainly more sensitive than betas. To the average omega the scent in his house would be relatively faint – a subtle suggestion of a _presence_ to the edge of their consciousness – they would certainly be able to identify it as _alpha_, but probably not be able to pinpoint exactly which alpha it was.

Will's been called many things in his thirty-eight years of life: average was not one of them.

To Will, every room in his house positively exudes the scent of _Hannibal Lecter_. It's like being cradled by the very presence of the man.

The reason _why_ it smells that way is a _beautiful_ thing, and Will cherishes the thought like he would a child, swaddling it in warmth and cuddling it to his chest to protect its preciousness.

Hannibal Lecter waited until Will had returned home, and then he drove an hour and a half, in the dead of the night to Wolf Trap. And then he broke into Will's home and scent marked his belongings. At least one or two in every room. It would have taken him _hours_.

And then, on a half thought hunch, Will ambles over to his medicine cabinet in his master bathroom and picks up the pill wheel from where it sits in the left corner of the topmost shelf, as always. They're birth control pills; he'd bought a month's supply about a week before he walked into Jack's office on that fateful day, and although he's not touched them since then, they give off the perpetual accidental message of being in use. And so, hunch in mind, Will cracks one out of the package and grinds it to his incisor, just deep enough to get a taste on his tongue.

Sugar pills.

Hannibal Lecter drove an hour and a half, broke into his house, scent marked his things, and then walked past seven dogs and a notoriously light sleeping Will, and replaced his birth control pills with placebos.

From a psychopath of Hannibal's caliber, Will figures this is probably the preverbal _green light_, so to speak.

Will's smile lasts right up until he gets the call from Jack saying there's been a suspected Ripper murder, and that he'd better get there.

_Quick._

Then he stops smiling.

For a second, everything was going _so well_.

But only for a second.

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A/N: *peeks out from behind that rock* I'm a terrible person with that ending, I know. So yeah, sorry about that. But it's (mostly) not my fault! I was going to have this chapter and the next one be one chapter and then someone was all "I'd love to see more murder related courting" and I went, yes, that should happen, and then the chapters just mutated from there. This is a necessary evil of pacing – blame Will's chess teacher.

Also, this is where the whole cherry picking and mixing canon is starting to come into play in a big way. Imagine that the The Mother and the Angel Maker cases were basically the same as the show minus any of Hannibal's copycat shenanigans and Will's hallucinations, but Hannibal wasn't having dinner with Tobias – he's not yet met Tobias, and Will isn't working Tobias's murders yet. The redhead was not Nicholas Boyle, he was just a guy. And yes, one of the women mentioned in this chapter was just killed by the Chesapeake Ripper. This isn't Twilight folks, where you get everything you want and don't have to sacrifice anything to get it; actions have consequences and this is a deadly game. That said, I did promise a happy ending (with cannibalism) and I am going to deliver on that, if that's any ease to the mind.

So, to come: a Ripper crime scene, some therapy, Tobias the creepy alpha and Franklyn, everyone one's favorite dropout of standing up school (the Hannibal crack videos might have been a bad idea) and of course some more manipulative Will and jealous Hannibal. So, as always, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome and enjoy.

P.S: The 'chicken' totally had red hair. That is all.


	4. Interlude - Red Hands

Summary: The moment Will Graham walks into Hannibal Lecter's office smelling of heat and unmated omega and announces his desire for a mate, Hannibal decides three things in short order.

One: Will Graham is his. Two: he will kill any other, lesser alphas that so much as even look at Will, and serve them to him on a silver platter. And three: he needs to buy a new throw pillow.

Hannibal Lecter is going to seduce poor little innocent Will Graham (snicker).

Oh Hannibal, that gun is loaded but it's not in your hands.

Or, here's that scene from Chapter 2 that I keep promising, involving Hannibal's POV, a certain pillow and some porn.

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Warnings: Uh…cannibalism? Seriously, if I have to warn for that it's possible you may be lost. Show level or less violence, much higher than show level sexual activity.

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. Don't taunt me.

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_ "The fire burns, I'm not the one with the match, man. That gun is loaded, but it's not in my hand." _– Red Hands, Walk Off the Earth

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It occurs to Hannibal as he stands in his office, the silk of his throw pillow pressed to his nose and his own semen cooling in his fist, that for the first time in a _very_ long time, he has no idea how he came to this point.

_Well_, he admits only in the privacy of his own mind, wits returning to him deplorably slowly, _this is not perhaps completely accurate_.

_Will Graham_.

His cock, spent in his own fist, twitches violently and makes a valiant attempt at hardness once more.

_Yes_, Hannibal acknowledges, casting a rueful glance down at his eager flesh, _that would appear to be the place to start_.

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_A pity he's a beta_.

It is Hannibal's first thought upon setting eyes the man that is introduced to him as Will Graham, all poorly tailored flannel, shaggy curls and downcast eyes. Perhaps it is a strange one, but it is not, as so few of Hannibal's thoughts are, an intrinsically sexual one. Sexuality, to Hannibal, is both an extremely fluid and yet hardly considered concept. Will Graham is certainly of an interest to Hannibal, even upon that first, hesitant look from those blue eyes, and yet it is not an interest based in matters of the flesh, so to speak.

_Pure empathy_.

Will Graham, hidden behind his dumpy clothes and concealing glasses, possesses the ability to climb into the very minds of the most depraved and _beautiful_ monsters that society has to offer. To wear their skins, to _live_ in their thoughts, to _see_ the parts of them that the tasteless, uninspired masses could not even begin to fathom.

Hannibal finds that thought positively…_appetizing_.

And this, as it would turn out, is where his musing on Will's orientation comes into play. It takes no more than the _look _of Will Graham, splattered with the blood of Garrett Jacob Hobbs and shaking and yet so very _alive_ for Hannibal to decide that he is going to take Will Graham and whisper into his chrysalis until a butterfly as beautiful and _monstrous_ as he can make it emerges. Something shaped in Hannibal's image, that will look at him with death and _adoration_ in his eyes – that will _see_ him and _still_ keep looking.

_Sex_, Hannibal acknowledges, as they sit by the bed of a comatose Abigail Hobbs, _would be the easiest way to accomplish this_.

Now, Hannibal has no particular hang-ups associated with the fact that Will is a male beta – it would certainly not preclude him from pursuing that avenue of attack if he only had his own feelings on the matter to consider. Hannibal's own sexual history is mostly a laundry list of brief, impersonal liaisons with betas of both the male and female persuasion, with the exception of a single omega in medical school who had been on birth control and entirely disinterested in the concept of mating in general. However, all of the encounters were similar in that they were designed only to cater to the physical, and, although entirely satisfying in that regard, largely devoid of anything else.

Still, Hannibal must also consider Will Graham's feelings on this matter, and this is where he begins to run into problems. From his conversations with Alana Bloom about the man, he has largely divined that Will, if he shows any sexual interest at all, only does so to female betas, a fact further supplemented by the telling blush that had hinted her cheeks. Now, this is not an insurmountable obstacle, but if Hannibal intends to dedicate his attention to crafting Will Graham into a killer, he cannot too embark on a campaign to rewire the man's sexual orientation.

One metamorphoses at a time.

And so, as Hannibal readies himself for his first appointment with Will Graham, he concedes that he will not be able to exploit the path of least resistance in his goal, but rather try something a little more…experimental that will require a great deal more work.

_Yes_, Hannibal thinks, rising to answer the timely, polite knock at his door, _it's a pity he's a beta_.

And then he opens the office door, and abruptly thinks _nothing_ at all.

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Hannibal is no stranger to omega pheromones. His position as an unmated thoroughbred of a certain status makes him a white whale, so to speak, in the society circles he frequents. Hannibal cannot attend a soiree or opera opening without having to field off at least one or two omegas pushed on him by older, status-grubbing relatives who practically _salivate_ at the idea of tying their insipid little omega brats to a thoroughbred alpha of his status and caliber. Some have even been thrust at him on the cusp of their heats, smelling _rudely_ of their pheromones considering the polite company they had been in at the time.

And yet, for all that Hannibal is every inch an alpha, and as such susceptible to alpha ruts, it had never been a hardship to turn those omegas down with a polite refusal, as unaffected as he would be standing in a crowd of betas. This, Hannibal knows, is because humanity, by and large are _swine_. While Hannibal can make no true claims to divinity, he can say without irony that he is something so far above the droning, horrible masses of humanity that he might as well be a god to them, so far out of their understanding is he and his ways. To know that, and then show interest in one of those boring, bland, little omegas?

It would be like…showing sexual interest in a goldfish.

Hannibal was never one for _pets_.

And yet, the first wave of _Will Graham_, fresh off a heat and smelling of slick and need and _omega_, hits Hannibal like a _knife_ to the _heart, _piercing and swift and _deadly_.

Will Graham, with his monster seeing eyes. Will Graham, who smells _heat_ and satisfaction and slick, _needy_ omega.

Will Graham, the unmated omega who desires a _mate_.

Only an iron will, honed from a lifetime of living as a wolf in lambs clothing, spares Hannibal from conducting the therapy sessions achingly, excruciating _hard_. And it's that iron will that Hannibal uses to get him through to the end of the session, rubber stamping Will for the field and making polite small talk about his next appointment. And then Will leaves, and Hannibal finds himself over at his couch, staring at the little pillow that sits there like a man in a trance.

The pillow is from a little custom showroom on the harbour front. Hannibal bought it specifically for this couch, the one that no one ever sits on, and he picked it for the sheer _feel_ of the wild silkworm spun silk, the rareness of the fabric making it an expensive item.

That very silk is now saturated in the smell of Will Graham's heat, a causality of the man's anxious _slick covered_ hands that had fumbled with the pillow as he'd not met Hannibal's eyes, accidentally transferring his very essence to the pillow, staining the silk.

Hannibal has never seen anything so _beautiful_ as those few streaks in his life.

He can't remember commanding his hands to pick up the pillow, but he can feel the cool silk against his fingers none the less.

And then, before he has time to do anything, there is a knock on the door and Hannibal, instead of putting the pillow back on the couch, as is its proper place, takes four quick strides across his office and drops it into the drawer in his desk where he keeps all his precious secrets. It's ends up being Will at the door, sheepish and embarrassed about left gloves, and Hannibal retrieves them for him, lest Will and that scent come back into his office and force Hannibal to do something…rash.

And then, as soon as he hears the outer door close, Hannibal is back at his desk again, and with hands that are not as steady as they should be, Hannibal pulls open the secret compartment in his desk to revel its treasures.

A sketch of the wound man, a linoleum knife, and a pillow saturated with Will Graham's _slick_.

Hannibal takes the pillow out, the only _true_ treasure to be found, presses it to his face, and _finally inhales_.

_Sweet_, like the succulent smell of a fever, something _ashy_, like the smoke of a burning fire, and the undeniable heat _musk_ of _Will Graham_, of fingers shoved in a _dripping_, needy cunt, thighs trembling, cervix aching for an alpha to _mount_ and fill him up and _breed._

Hannibal has his fly undone and his _achingly_ hard cock in his own fist before he realizes he has done it.

And so, the scent of _Will_ to his nose, Hannibal fucks his cock, so red it's almost _angry_ into his own fist and imagines Will, alone, battering that needy, _swollen_ prostate of his with some inferior toy when all he'd really needed was a _cock_, _Hannibal's_ cock, bigger than his pathetic little toy, hard and thick that would fill him so full that there'd be no room for any thought that wasn't _Hannibal_. Imagines pulling that insipid toy from his body and putting his own mouth to that _dripping_, wanting hole, diving in to engage in a little _carnal_ cannibalism until the only word Will would know was _Hannibal_. Imagines thrusting his own fingers into that slick, _wet_ passage, stretching that hole so that Will could _take_ his girth and feeling that hole convulse around him as he made Will come again and again and _again_.

Imagines that instead of his own hand, he's pushing his swollen cock into Will's soaking, _needy_ cunt, fucking his way into that _tight_, warm, slick channel until he's balls deep. And then _pounding_ into him as Will hissed encouragements, putting his teeth to that _perfect_, pale neck so that the whole world would know _exactly_ who had won Will. Imagines knotting him so deep that Will will _never_ be able to get away, imagines that Will will look at him, and _see_ him, _all_ of him, and not _want_ to get away.

Imagines that he'll clench around Hannibal's swollen knot and whisper even as he comes around him, _the world will forget what I look like not swollen with your children_.

He's never come harder in his life.

When Hannibal come back into himself, he finds his cock in his fist, knot bulbous in the open air, the silk of the pillow crushed beneath the vice of his fingers, and semen on his suit, so far up as his shoulder.

The suit is bespoke – custom tailored for him, made of only the finest imported fabrics and ringing in at just over two thousand dollars. His drycleaner, a veritable miracle worker, would likely be able to get the stain out, as good as new.

Hannibal has no intention of sending this suit in.

Perhaps, sometime in the future, he'll bring this one out on the anniversary of the birth of their first child, and see if Will is interesting in _dirtying_ it up a little more.

His cock certainly seems to like that idea.

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Hannibal, for all his moralizing and theorizing on the subject of divinity, is largely first and foremost a man of facts and science. Hannibal has read several peer reviewed studies on omega imprinting and its social implications – he has even been the coauthor on two such papers himself. As such, Hannibal is well aware about the high rates of incompatibility, domestic abuse and divorce in omega/alpha pairings where imprinting has not occurred compared to ones where it has. The couples tend to report higher levels of agitation with partners, less sexual activity, and overall higher levels of dissatisfaction with their mates and their lives in general.

The gist of all of all of these peer reviewed articles in prestigious journals written by psychologists that Hannibal actually admires is this – alpha/omega mating's where imprinting has not occurred is not recommended.

Hannibal finds he has never cared _less_ about science than in this very moment.

If nature has not seen it fit to have Will Graham imprint on him, then Hannibal will correct that flaw by _whatever_ means necessary, and he will eliminate all challengers who might try to get in his way.

Hannibal once killed a woman for the crime of spilling hot coffee on his pristine white shirt and not apologizing. He poured burning hot coffee down her throat until she could feel her own lungs scalding, and let her drown that way. Then he cut those very lungs from her still warm body and made 'lamb' kabobs marinated in coffee which he brought as an appetizer to the housewarming party of a colleague and his wife.

His drycleaner managed to rescue the shirt.

For any pathetic, _lesser_ alpha that attempts to take his intended mate from him, that commits the delusion of thinking that they are worthy of _his_ Will, of putting their teeth to his neck and their inferior cocks inside his needy, _gluttonous_ cunt, _dirtying_ it their substandard seed?

_Oh_, now that is a crime that has the monster in Hannibal's soul _roaring_ for blood.

Those, Hannibal will slaughter like the swine that they are and feed them from his own hand to Will as he _writhes_ on Hannibal's swollen knot.

Slowly, _deliberately_, Hannibal smears his seed into the silk of the pillow, mixing the scent of _himself_ and _Will_ together at the most _base_, animal level before lifting it to his nose once more for a sniff.

It smells _divine_.

Will Graham is _his_.

Now all Hannibal has to do is ensure it.

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Well, that and buy a new throw pillow.

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When Hannibal sleeps that night he finds himself wandering his memory palace until he comes to a door he has not seen in many, many years.

The brass nameplate, dull and lackluster from neglect and lack of use, proclaims _Family_.

When Hannibal pushes the door open, he expects to feel bone numbing cold, the sharp, aching pain of fragile bone broken and the soul killing agony of the sight of three little milk teeth at the bottom of a rough, wooden soup bowl.

Instead, he finds himself in his bed.

Hannibal wonders for one brief second if he's woken up, before he looks to the door and the _sight_ that he is met with answers that question and steals his breath all in one fell swoop.

_Look Papa_, a proud, loving little voice says from beside the bed, all wild ash blond curls and Will's blue eyes, tiny, white fabric roses adorning her pristine white nightdress, _Daddy and I made you breakfast_. And Will, standing by the door, watching with a twinkle in his eye that says, guess _who_ you're having for breakfast this morning as red hands rub gently over the heavily pregnant swell of their child that slumbers within him.

When Hannibal wakes up the next morning, for the first time in forty years, he feels _alive_.

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A/N: So that's my Hannibal POV guys. Kind of less secure in his mind then I feel in Will's, so tell me what you think. Thanks to everyone enjoying this fic so far. You guys brighten my day. Also, I will, at some time in the future, post an interlude/one-shot of Hannibal POV of Hannibal breaking into Will's house, scenting his things, replacing his birth control, and then just standing over Will's bed and deep breathing like the creeper he really is (and we love him as). But, as always, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome, and enjoy.

P.S: Bonus points to the people who can tell me where the 'goldfish' reference is from. Let your geek flag fly :)


	5. Chapter 4

Warnings: Uh…cannibalism? Seriously, if I have to warn for that it's possible you may be lost. Show level or less violence, much higher than show level sexual activity.

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. But that doesn't mean I can't...borrow it for a bit ;)

A/N: As always, please read the stupidly long A/N at the end as well, and enjoy :)

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"_You can bet your bottom dollar, in time you're gonna be mine."_ – Shania Twain, I'm Gonna Getcha Good

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When Will pulls up to the crime scene and sees Alana Bloom, hale and hearty and breathing, standing beside some unknown person in a blue FBI windbreaker, he lets out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. Relief flows, a heady drug through his veins, even as Will acknowledges that it is perhaps not what it should be.

Because, here's the thing – Will would have still gone ahead with his plan even if it _had_ been Alana's corpse was awaiting him.

Will knows that this certainly excludes him from the ranks of good men, but it is the truth all the same. If he had found Alana's corpse here, taken from the lovely, kind woman that she is and transformed into whatever _hideously beautiful_ art that Hannibal deemed worthy of her trespass, it would not have been enough for Will to call the whole thing off. It would have hurt of course, the guilt of his misstep, of over-playing his hand, of the loss of a woman as _good_ as Alana is, but it would not have been enough to outweigh his desire for the heaviness of Hannibal's child in his womb.

It might not have even been enough to outweigh the appreciation he knows he will feel when he _does_ set his eyes on whatever art piece Hannibal has created for him, presenting his skill as an alpha to all before him, a conventional practice in perhaps an…unconventional way.

Sometimes, Will wonders what he's becoming.

Sometimes, he admits he's been like this all along.

Still, he's painfully glad he doesn't have to make that distinction today.

One day, he will make sure he…expresses his gratitude to Hannibal for that in an _appropriate_ manner.

But for now…there's a crime scene for him to see.

That in mind, Will heads toward Alana, not seeing Jack anywhere in sight. They're at the entrance of a park, a footpath wooded in to give the comforting illusion of security, and Will knows that whatever awaits him is in a location with a little more…gravitas than this, most likely in some area central to the park, where everyone from the morning jogger to the mother pushing her baby carriage could behold the horror of Hannibal's gift.

It's strangely flattering, really.

Of course, Will makes sure to keep this thought off his face as he approaches Alana who, after an awkward greeting on both of their parts, leads him further into the park. There is a hesitance to her, a downturned look that Will first attributes to the residual embarrassment of their ill-fated kiss, but then, just as they come over the crest of a small hill so that Will can see the milling FBI agents and Jack, a half head above most, standing in the center and directing the show Alana stops him with a gentle hand on his forearm, bringing his attention to her, and what she says makes Will revise his theory.

"I know you like to go in without anything clouding your vision, but I just…I don't want you to be unprepared. It's Abigail's friend," Alana says, quiet and gentle, but somehow still resolute – the sign, Will has always thought, of someone with good intentions – her painfully kind eyes offering all the comfort they can, not realizing how little is needed, "Marissa Schurr. Do you remember, you met her once at the hospital?"

The rude, Mall of America girl who suggested that – in Hannibal's presence - Will fuck someone _other_ than Hannibal.

Oh _yes_, Will remembers her.

"Vaguely," Will says, hiding his eyes in his shoes so as not to let her see the truth, and Alana clearly takes this as some kind of internal sorrow as she squeezes his arm once more in comfort before dropping it as Jack finally notices them, hailing them over with a sweeping wave of his arm that draws Will attention towards him.

And of course, to Hannibal, who stands next to him.

It is not particularly a surprise to see Hannibal there – Will knows that there is no way that a psychopathic borderline narcissist of Hannibal's level would be anywhere else than here, so as to take in first hand Will's reaction – but it's still a jolt to see the man there, an _awareness_ that runs through his very veins at the presence of the man.

The _look_, visible only through the tiniest crack in Hannibal's mask, all dark promises and savage _possessiveness_, that Will catches as the man breaks away from Jack to make his way over to Will and Alana tells him he's not alone in that feeling.

Well, that and the fact that Hannibal, without so much as a polite greeting to Alana, inserts himself into the space between their bodies and _ushers_ Will over to Jack, his every move a very subtle message indeed.

_This is mine, this is what I can have and you cannot by the sheer fact of our DNA and nothing you can do will ever change that._

Will would be lying if he didn't say it makes him just the tiniest bit _wet_.

And then Will catches sight of her, and just _stares_.

Alone, even without the context Will knows that will rush in soon after, it is a _lovely_, macabre tableau. A single, solitary figure kneeling in the picturesque little gazebo, positioned _just_ so that morning sun will strike her face. Pale skin made ivory by the early pallor of death, accented by dark brown hair that falls in waves over her right shoulder and complimented by the elegant, pristine white dress that adorns her form, face tilted towards the heavens, hands in front of her, palms up as if in offering.

If it wasn't for the gaping hole in her chest where her heart once was and that now houses flowers, white petals blood streaked as they spill artfully out, bracketing the whole blooms, and the heart that sits in those very palms, the last gift she will ever give, it would make a lovely photograph for some insipid clothing magazine.

As it is, it is a lovely picture of _another_ kind indeed.

Will tampers down that feeling, but _just_ slow enough that he knows that Hannibal, standing at just the edge of his peripheral vision will see the appreciation that Will has for his terrible, _beautiful_ gift.

There is a perfect darkness in those eyes that Will is _dying_ to explore.

"What do you see Will? Is it him?" Jack demands, breaking the moment before it could truly form, and Will lets it pass; The Ripper is Jack's own personal cross to bear, his own white whale, his obsession so strong Will knows it has erased any thought of Abigail's connection to this from his mind in a single minded focus of _The Ripper_, and one day Will will have to confront the problems that causes, but today is not that day.

Instead, he lets the pendulum swing.

_Wrath. Anger so hot it is cold, tempered from the wild, uncontrolled thing it wished to be into the brutal elegance before him. Every motion, every cut, every angle of her body chosen carefully, this rude, insignificant little swine that was alive right up until her still beating heart was expertly removed from her unworthy chest and used as an offering for a better cause. The hands bound with fishing wire, so as not to disturb the aesthetic, the all-important presentation, and the flowers placed with a certain gentleness into her bleeding chest, care shown to them not shown to her. The girl is insignificant, picked only for her sharp, rude tongue and the dark fall of her hair that provides a much needed proxy, but the message isn't, the heart and flowers considered and carefully arranged so that only the best impression could be left. _

_It's a dare, it's a plea, it's a challenge, and it's all for Will. Look, here I am, in all my glory. Do you see me? Yes, you do, don't you._

_Can you want me?_

_What do you think of my design?_

"It's The Ripper, and it's a message, but…," Will says, shaking his head as if he is coming out of a trance, words deliberately slow and laboured, "I think only the person it's for would be able to tell what it says," and it isn't even a lie, eyes downtrodden to imply omegean subservience, disappointment at his failure of an alpha.

Jack's frustration visibly amps up at that – as, Will notes, does the intrigued look in Hannibal's eyes, who has caught the clever wordplay that Jack has missed – but Jack doesn't channel his frustration out at Will as he might have in the past – a remnant of that old world attitude of chivalry towards the 'weaker sex' – instead lashing out at the team assembled around him, "What kind of flowers are those?"

"Orange blossoms," Zeller answers, and then at the incredulous looks he receives from almost all fronts, a bit defensively, "What, I've got hobbies and emotional depth."

"What do they mean?" Jack asks as a follow up, shifting his intense focus towards Zeller, but it is Katz who answers, voice solemn and just this side of _dreading_, "Fertility."

It's possible that makes Will more than a _little_ bit wet.

"Maybe the Ripper's looking for a mate," Price says, somewhere between joking and serious, trying to diffuse the tense silence that Katz's revelation has spawned, but from the dawning looks of understanding on Jack and Katz and Alana's faces, it massively backfires, making it only tenser still.

"Just what I need," Jack says, anger and frustration escaping him like air out of a leaking balloon, and although Will doesn't risk a look in Hannibal's direction, he knows if he did he'd – and he alone – would see a feral, _dark_ satisfaction in those dark eyes at being the cause of Jack's malaise.

"There's some missing, of the heart," Beverly says, from her position by the body, tone tinged with hesitance at making the mood worse as she holds Marissa Schurr's heart in gloved hands and gently turns it over, "The back is hollowed out or something."

"Check her mouth," Will says, something terrible and _beautiful_ running through his mind, and Beverly Katz, after a horrified look at him, does just that.

She brings out a single rose blossom, carved from Marissa Schurr's heart like a tomato rose, delicate and _grotesquely_ lovely.

Most alphas would just buy flowers.

Hannibal Lecter carves a single rose out of the heart of a rude little girl, and then places it in her mouth, so that her last act, even in death, will be a perversion.

Will's never cared much for _most_ alphas anyways.

"I need a drink," Jack says, voice heavy and full of regrets, and Will finds himself agreeing with Jack, though for a different reason he is sure.

Will would _kill_ for a celebratory whiskey right about now.

Away from the prying eyes of Jack, Hannibal and everyone else, as he leaves the crime scene, Will secrets a single, blood soaked petal away into his pocket, and it doesn't feel like a crime at all.

After all, they _are_ for him.

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"You told Jack you couldn't see The Ripper's message," Hannibal says that night, about halfway through their session that evening and a quarter of the way through the blush wine that Hannibal brought out for the occasion, the pink of it the same pink of the blood staining the once pristine white petal that rests in Will's pocket.

Will doesn't particularly think Hannibal planned that, but he wouldn't put it past the man.

"You caught that huh?" Will says to Hannibal's incredibly expensive shoes, swirling his wine glass in a way to suggest nervousness, the illusion of prey that has been caught.

"It seemed that you were not being…entirely honest," Hannibal says, voice as smooth as the leather of the chairs they are seated in, displaying none of the true feeling Will knows slumbers beneath his surface, "I am merely curious as to why."

"There's this sonnet," Will says, not quite in answer, lifting his eyes up to Hannibal's in a rare move, because this he _must_ see in Hannibal's eyes, "from Dante. Do you know it? _He woke her then, and trembling and obedient, she ate that burning heart out of his hand. Weeping, I saw him then depart from me_."

"_Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for her?" _Hannibal _purrs_, picking up beautiful from the trailing hook that Will left him, and the _look_ those dark eyes of his is something that falls short of words, _"Find nourishment in the very sight of her? I think so. But would she see through the bars of his plight, and ache for him?_"

And _oh_, Will would like to fall asleep in that particular _look_ in those eyes, kept warm and safe by the monsters that live there and their terrible _adoration_.

"That's what the Ripper was saying – that was his message," Will says, soft and quiet, still to Hannibal's eyes, unwilling to waste one second of the _precious_ moment they've found themselves in, "He's found an omega to court."

"And how does that make you feel, knowing that?" Hannibal asks, a route psychoanalytic question, but Will can tell that the bestial part of him just below the immaculate person suit is the one that is listening for the answer this time.

Will doesn't intend to disappoint that part.

"It should make me terrified, or repulsed," He says, voice hushed as if he is revealing a great secret, almost against his will, "But honestly? It just makes me envious I don't have someone who loves _me_ like that. I wanted to…protect his message from Jack and the others, because they'd never see the beauty in it."

And _oh_, Will has never seen anything more beautiful than the helpless, deadly _besottment_ that he sees in those eyes.

Yes, this is the only alpha for him.

"That must be wrong, to feel that way?" Will says, finally breaking eye contact to meet Hannibal's chin because he must for this, the plea of the ordinary man he is pretending to be, the question that he must ask so as not to show his cards.

"It can be argued," the monster pretending to be a man answers, voice an elegant purr to hide how terribly untrue the truth he is trying to sell is, "That no feeling is ever wrong, so long as it feels right to you."

Will has spent a good chunk of his life in shrink's offices, studying psychology at university and learning the inner workings of the 'talking cure.' He can say, without impunity or prejudice, that what Hannibal just said is actually the _worst_ therapeutic advice that he's _ever_ heard.

Good thing Will isn't here for the _therapy_.

"This is really excellent wine," Will says instead, a non sequitur that he knows that Hannibal will take for avoidance rather than what it really is – satisfaction at getting what he _is_ really here for.

"Château d'Esclans 2011 Garrus Rosé. A particularly good year for rosé wines," Hannibal says, taking the offered bait and sitting back into his chair, once again cloaked in his person suit, but there is the _tiniest_ glimmer of dark pleasure that slips through as he finishes, a sharks smile on his lips and this time, Will can tell it really _is_ a truth, "I am so glad you are enjoying it. We must always take time to savour the things that bring us pleasure."

"Yes," Will says, taking a sip of the wine to hide the smile born of the knowledge that once he has left, Hannibal will bring Will's wine glass to his own lips and steal the residual hint of _Will_ left there for his own, "I agree."

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"She was talking to that reporter, that Lounds woman," Abigail says the next day as they walk around the gardens of the facility, when Will comes to tell her of her friend's death. "She was selling out all my secrets and smiling to my face as she did it."

And then she stops and asks, face tilted up to his, an honest inquiry from a girl who has had far too much experience with lies, "Is it wrong that I'm not sorry she's dead?"

"Hannibal says it can be argued that no feeling is ever wrong, so long as it feels right to you," Will says, because it's terrible advice and he wants to see if the little wolf can see it as well, and at the same time, teach a lesson that she will need.

Don't rely on _anyone_ to tell you when the lion is in the room.

"That…doesn't sound like good therapeutic advice," Abigail says, eyebrow raised skeptically at him and Will smiles, full and bright at her, the proud teacher before he says, a conspirators promise, "I know. Don't tell Hannibal." And then he sobers, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear as he offers her all the kindness he has to spare, and that it is the truth is an added luxury, "But you'll be ok – you're a strong girl."

"Thanks," Abigail says, and Will can see that she is truly grateful, no artifice or manipulation in those eyes. And then she makes an effort to brighten up, this remarkable little girl and asks, cheeky little smile on her face, the smile of a shared secret, "So how's the war coming along?"

Will thinks of a still missing throw pillow, a scent marked sweater, gourmet homemade 'chicken' soup, his still scent marked home, sugar pills sitting in his medicine cabinet and the heart of a rude little girl, Abigail's own friend who lived and had a family of her own, offered to him as a bloody rose and an even bloodier offer.

And _smiles_.

"I think it's progressing well," Will says.

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"So," Beverly says over the fiber samples of the dress of a dead girl, life cut short so as to be fashioned into a courting gift for Will, "There's this alpha I know."

Will's pretty sure he didn't actually vocalize his, _oh my god please no_, but it must appear on his face, because Beverly lifts both of her latex covered hands up in the universal gesture for _do not fear me, I'm unarmed_, before she says, "Now just hear me out."

"He's a great guy – absolutely not a psycho. He loves dogs – he started a charity to help shelter rescue dogs, he's smart, funny, outgoing and everyone I've met seems to love him. He's an ex-Raven," she says, and Will has a second of confusion, imagining some monstrous creature with the feathers of raven, inky and dark, before his mind snaps back into the real world and he realizes she's taking about the football team, "so he's loaded and but's he's not your typical sports asshole. He uses his fame to build awareness for his charitable causes, and also he _really_ loves dogs."

"You mentioned that already," Will says, a bit bemused internally that he's been branded with a _must love dogs_ sticker in regards to dating, before he asks, eyebrow upraised sceptically, genuinely curious, "And you think he'd be interested in an omega like _me_?"

"Don't sell yourself short – I might not be interested in your type, but even I can discern that you're a babe under all that flannel and stubble," Beverly says, with a once over that makes him feel both strangely like meat – and this is truly impressive, as the _actual_ cannibal he spends time with hasn't even managed this - and also a bit flattered, "He's looking for someone smart and kind, who likes dogs and doesn't give two shits about his money or his fame. That sounds a bit like you to me Graham."

Will gives her an awkward nod of what might be considered acquiescence, but because it's _Beverly_, he also asks, tone largely making it clear that he already knows the answer, "Why do I have the feeling this is all leading up to something?"

"Well…" Beverly wheedles, absolutely no guilt in her sparkling eyes, tone entirely one of false hesitance, "I _may_ have mentioned you to him and he _may_ have said that he'd like to take you to dinner this Friday."

Will takes a second to stare pointedly at the calendar on the wall, just to confirm to both of them that it's _Wednesday_.

"Beverly…" Will starts, fond exasperation not feigned in the least, but he's cut off by Beverly's earnest and heartfelt, "Hey, you're my friend Will, and you deserve happiness just as much as the next omega."

Will freely admits that he's terrible at making and keeping friends, but he thinks that no one could dispute the fact that what he lacks in quantity, he more than makes up in _quality_.

"I'll think about it, but I'm making no promise," Will says, waving a finger at her, the sincere affection in her eyes for him making it impossible to turn her offer down right off the bat, and he takes a second to appreciate how sometimes the most honest feeling is the best manipulation of them all.

It's a piece of advice that could come in handy, after all, especially if he one day finds himself with the need to coax a certain alpha into meeting any weird pregnancy cravings he might have.

"Works for me," Beverly says, bringing him out of a pleasant fantasy of the l_ook _on Hannibal's face if he walked into his kitchen and found a heavily pregnant Will eating something like a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich and then just had to _accept_ it, but then a machine _dings_ and her attention is taken up with whatever findings are printed out on the sheet.

"Man, Egyptian cotton and look at that thread count," Beverly says, voice admiring in a way that Will is sure is at least half a defense mechanism against the horrors that they all see daily, and then with a joke he knows is one, "At least he's got good taste, your monster."

Will strokes the petal in his pocket, a soothing silkiness masked as a nervous gesture, and thinks not of thousand dollar suits and fine dining, but of little alpha children with dark eyes and dark curls.

"That he does," Will says.

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When Will googles the guy on his phone before he leaves to make his appointment with Hannibal, he knows he's not going to be able to make that date.

And the thing it, it has absolutely nothing to do with the guy himself.

He seems handsome enough – tall enough that he'd make Will feel like a midget, but Will likes his alpha partners taller than him – with a nice, conventionally attractive face that speaks of open emotion and uncomplicated feeling. Still as muscular as when he played, and as wide as a truck, but every picture Will finds of the guy involves him cradling some animal in incredibly gentle hands, and the only negative article he can find on the guy is about some botched interception in one game in a sport that Will doesn't even care about.

All in all, he seems like a really nice guy.

If Will goes on a date with him, Hannibal is going to kill him.

This, as it would turn out, is _not_ the problem.

Will is perfectly fine with Hannibal killing any lesser alpha rivals and serving them up to him on, given the man's seemingly undying love for puns, an actual silver platter.

And yes, he is aware that _should_ be the problem. He's moved _way_ past that.

The problem, as it were, is that the guy has a quarter million twitter followers, gets recognized at bars and has at least three fan sites dedicated to him, and that's just what Will found in five minutes of googling.

The problem is; people are going to notice if this guy suddenly drops off the face of the earth or ends up as The Ripper's next piece of art. And at least one or two or a _few hundred_ of those people are going to be able to put together the fact that it happened right after he went on a date with Will.

It doesn't do Will any good to put in all this work if he's only going to have access for heat mandated conjugal visits.

And Will is _not_ interested in being a single parent.

So, he concludes, as he parks outside Hannibal's office, not going on a date with that guy.

"Beverly wants to set me up on a date with one of her alpha friends this Friday," Will says as he walks past Hannibal holding the door open and into his office.

What, no need to let such a lovely opportunity go to waste now, is there?

He didn't think so.

The look that Hannibal gives him, all causal inquiry except for that fact there are far too many _teeth_ on display when he asks, "Indeed?," is a beautiful confirmation of that hunch.

"Well, actually she may have _already_ set me up with one of her alpha friends for dinner this Friday," Will says, making sure there is _just_ enough disinterest in his tone so that he won't wake up tomorrow to the corpse of Beverly Katz.

"_Indeed_," Hannibal says, and there are still a frightening number of teeth on display, but he's clearly picked up on Will's hint as he continues, voice all false calm, a thin layer of ice over the deep ocean that Will knows rages within him, "You do not seemed…excited about this development."

"Yeah," Will says, angling his shoulders into a move of confused dejection, "I should be – I mean I went off my suppressants to try and find a mate, and I'll never find one if I don't take opportunities like this one. And he even sounds like a great guy." And then, neck tilted just _so_ to frame the pale curve, eyes just meeting Hannibal's own through the fringe of his lowered lashes, like it is a secret just for them, "It's just…it feels wrong, to think about dating him."

The _it feels wrong to date anyone but you_ might be unsaid, but the _gleaming_ darkness of Hannibal's satisfaction that slips through a crack in his mask indicates it is certainly not _unheard_.

Will wants to _stay_ in that darkness with Hannibal, to only emerge into the light to care for their children, whom Will will not let anything steal their innocence, not even himself or Hannibal.

But he's getting ahead of himself.

"Our instincts are powerful things," Hannibal purrs, bringing him back to the moment, all careful, sensual manipulation camouflaged as friendly concern and therapeutic advice, "perhaps this is your mind's way of telling you that you would not be compatible."

"Yeah maybe - I just don't know how to say no politely," Will demurs, tilting his head towards Hannibal, every bit the submissive omega looking to the solid presence of an alpha for direction, "Beverly will be disappointed if I just say no without having a good reason as to why. I just wish I had a good excuse, or other plans or something."

And then, just to bait the already hanging hook, as if it is a thought that is just coming to him, still half formed, "Maybe I could make plans with Alana to try and patch up our friendship. Beverly would understand that."

And _oh_, the monsters in Hannibal's eyes don't like that _one_ bit.

"I would suggest giving Alana a little more time to adjust to her disappointment on her own. Any action now would likely just be aggravating an open wound," Hannibal says, and Will must bite his cheek to hide his smile at the thought that even sharks on a hook are still as caught as any other fish, and then Hannibal continues, a new light in his eyes that Will can't categorize, "You could accompany me to the opera – a new soprano is preforming Handel, and I happen to have an extra ticket," and Will finds he must stop himself from _gaping_ instead.

"I couldn't impose like that," Will blinks, the shock that colors his tone something he does not even have to manufacture. He hadn't gone into this with any specific goals really; dinner, perhaps, a meal at Hannibal's home, something he often offers to friends but with the potential for more, and enough that he could turn Beverly down without guilt. But _this?_

This is not something one offers to a friend, least of all from an unmated alpha to an unmated omega. Will has little context for the rules of society, but even he knows that this has migrated far out of the realm of friendship. The question then becomes, does Hannibal know that Will knows?

"Nonsense. You are my friend Will, and it is never an imposition to share something that brings joy with a friend," Hannibal asserts, all warm calm and clever wordplay so as to use the truth to hide a lie, and as he continues, entirely rational and the image of propriety, Will tastes blood as he bites down to hide the look that wants to escape him at the answer to his question, a lovely, resounding _no_, "And your presence would be additionally beneficial, as it would allow me to enjoy the performance without the distraction of the social climbing omegas that tend to…swarm at such events."

"So, in truth, you would be doing me a service by attending," Hannibal finishes, earnestness a shield to hide the slick skill of Hannibal's manipulation of turning a favor for Will into a favor for Hannibal that Will could hardly deny him.

This too, it is quite possible, makes Will just a little bit _wet_.

"I…wouldn't have anything to wear," Will offers up, and although it is a truth, it is also a token protest, and he thinks they both know it. Hannibal seems quite set on having Will on his arm for this little event, and well, who is Will to deny his 'friend' something that will bring him joy?

What Will hopes it will bring _him_ is another matter indeed.

"I will have something appropriate sent to you by Friday," Hannibal says, and Will can almost see the plan of action developing in those dark, intelligent eyes, the calls he will have to make and the small miracles he will demand to ensure that everything meets his extremely _exacting_ standards.

Will rather hopes to _exceed_ those expectations, but he doesn't think Hannibal will mind too much.

"Are you sure?" Will asks, posture, tone and form all crafted to portray entirely the man who has no idea how he has come to this point and is just going along for the ride because he doesn't want to admit he is lost, rather than the man holding the map.

"_Absolutely_, dear Will," Hannibal purrs warmly, _just_ this side too much of the satisfied alpha to be the casual friend.

"Well," Will says demurely, looking up through fanned lashes, the good little omega, "as long as you're sure."

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"Will," Beverly asks, walking into his office the next day with a large white box in her hands and a look that would make hardened criminals quiver on her face, "Do you want to explain why a package just came for you from an exclusive tuxedo store?"

"No?" Will says, taking the coward's way out and using it as a moment of distraction to steal the box out of her hands.

"_William Shannon Graham_," Beverly starts up, the sign of a truly epic lecture incoming, and Will takes a second to rue the day she hacked into his personnel file before he cuts her off with an entirely casual, "Also, I can't make it to dinner with your friend tomorrow. Please apologize for me – something has come up."

Beverly shoots him a look that says, _you're lucky I like you, or tomorrow you'd wake up and find a body part in your bed_, before she says, all mock danger, "I will let it slide, so long as the reason is that you have a date with Dr. Alpha Sexy Plaid Suits."

"Beverly!" Will splutters, more as a reaction to the nickname than anything else, before he answers back, still largely a token protest, because Beverly is too smart to really believe otherwise, "It is not a date. It's just two friends, attending an operatic performance."

"Yes, because I always take my platonic friend to the opera and buy him a tux," Beverly retorts, sarcasm inescapable in her tone before she changes gears at the speed of light and says, a fond, devilish smile on her face, "Speaking of, I want pics. The two hottest people I work with are getting all dolled up and I need to see this."

"It's _not_ a date," Will insists, only because he likes having the plausible deniability, and then because this must be said, just for the maintenance of Will's sanity, "And I'm not snapping a selfie at the opera."

"Uh, huh, you just don't want to share," Beverly says, entirely undeterred, and Will must admit this at least is true before she continues, all wicked mischief, "Will Graham, you sly dog. That man is falling right into your vagenda," and possibly for the first time in his life, Will Graham _goggles_.

_Vagenda_.

Where does she come up with these things?

_Well_, he admits, only in his own mind, the part that savored that 'chicken' soup, _it is rather fitting_.

Still though.

"I'm leaving now," Will says affecting the long suffering tone of the last sane man alive and Beverly's response is to put her hands dramatically to her heart and simper, eyes twinkling but kind, "my baby is all grown up. I'm so proud!"

Will rolls his eyes fondly and makes for the door, making it a few strides down the hallway before Beverly's bellowed, "Seriously though, _pics_. For the good of humanity Graham!" reaches him.

"I'll see what I can do," Will says, not turning around as he retreats, box in hand, and Beverley's answering squeal of delight follows him all the way down the hallway and puts a tiny smile on his face.

He thinks he might be getting better at this 'friends' thing.

WYWWYWWYWWYWWYWWYW

When he gets home, he sets the box down on the counter and lets the dogs out so that he can open his gift without fear of getting hair all over it. And then, with the reverence applied to great works of art, Will unties the sleek black ribbon, opens the lid, and carefully pulls open the fragile sheets of tissue paper that cover the prize within.

It doesn't disappoint.

Will can claim to be any kind of expert on men's fashion, but even he can tell that the tux before him, all crisp, clean edges in a flawless midnight black is an absolute masterpiece. He knows, even without taking it out of the box, that it will be tailored to him to perfection, even without the proper time or measurements for such a thing, and Will can already image how it will fit him, contouring to him like a glove and no doubt accentuating the parts of him that Hannibal is…particularly fond of.

Don't think Will hasn't noticed all those covert looks to his ass.

Oh, he's _noticed_.

And, he notes, as he carefully moves the suit aside, the box contains more than just the suit. A crisp, perfectly pressed white dress shirt, a sleek black bow tie, shining silver cufflinks inlaid with mother of pearl that Will dreads to imagine the price of and a gleaming pair black dress shoes, exactly his size and a dark pair of socks are all in the box, and all of them smell undeniably of _Hannibal_.

Tomorrow night, other than his underwear, there won't be anything on his body that isn't a gift from Hannibal.

_Well_, Will thinks with a smile, _it is subtler than scent marking his whole house, and certainly more intimate_.

_The only thing it's missing is a boutonniere_, Will thinks, a bit of whimsical humor, and then he smiles as the thought occurs to him – _well, that's not entirely true, is it?_

After all, Hannibal already got him flowers.

WYWWYWWYWWYWWYWWYW

Friday arrives with little fanfare, despite the momentousness of the occasion. Will goes into work, gives a lecture that his students only pay half attention to, their minds already chasing the pleasures of Saturday and Sunday, and Will, in a particularly good mood himself lets it slide.

Then he goes to his office, and puts in a few hours on The Ripper case, which largely amounts to playing Angry Birds on his phone and googling the Baltimore Opera, because it's not like he hasn't already solved this case.

It's just sharing that knowledge that he is unwilling to do.

Jack does drop by later in the day, and after some back and forth he does eventually pose the question of whether or not Abigail is the omega The Ripper intends to court, as Will knew he would. Thankfully, Will manages to kill that theory effectively with a submissive tilt of his head and the droll, yet entirely truthful statement that although he has little experience with romance, even _he_ knows that killing her best friend would be the _worst_ way to try and court her favor.

He leaves out the part where it has proven _quite_ effective so far in winning Will's favor.

Jack acquiesces, and leaves Will's office clearly frustrated, and by then it's time for Will to leave for home so that he can get ready for his…not date. The drive is largely uneventful, and given that Will is meeting Hannibal at the opera house, he gauges that he's got plenty of time to get ready before he has to leave. And so he lays the impossibly expensive tux and all of its assorted accessories out on the bed, takes a shower with a bath wash and shampoo that he's sure Hannibal will approve of, sandalwood with a hint of vanilla, and then he dries himself off and stands in front of his bathroom mirror with a razor in hand and shaving cream in the other and _considers_.

Historically, Will kept a nice layer of stubble because he was trying to pass as a beta, and the added roughness helped this illusion. When Will shaves, he tends to look…not so much young, but _soft_.

Soft, in a way that suggests pure omegean vulnerability, all milky, smooth skin that makes alphas want to simultaneously put their teeth to that skin and _mark_, and yet also makes them want to protect, to bracket the curve of his face with the flesh of their hands or the curves of their necks, as if by doing so they could hide him away from the world, a sight only for themselves.

Naturally, this was an effect that, as a beta, he grew the stubble to try and avoid.

Now though?

Now, Will smiles, lathers up his chin and brings the razor to his face.

And gets ready for _quite_ the performance.

WYWWYWWYWWYWWYWWYW

A/N: So…I split another chapter into 2. I think that brings it up to 8 planned chapters, 2 more interludes and also an epilogue because why the hell not? Endings are for quitters. Seriously though, this fic bares only the tiniest bit of resemblance to the original short little 3 chaptered porn and preg I was going to write when I first came across this prompt. Oh well, means I can add as much porn as I want ;) And also yes, I promise, Tobias and Franklyn at the opera next chapter, for realisies this time. Also it'll be the last chapter of murder husband UST, if you get my meaning ;) Also Vagenda is not my idea, so points for anyone who knows which tv show it's from, and Shannon isn't Will's canon middle name. He doesn't have one, but I remember reading a fic where that was his name and I thought it was lovely and unique, so I…borrowed it.

Also, no one caught my book reference last chapter (chapter 3), but I feel I must explain this chapter's one. The Dante quote is from the book/movie Hannibal, where Hannibal and Allegra Pazzi, the wife of the man who is trying to turn Hannibal in to Mason Verger for money (and who Hannibal later guts and hangs by his own entrails) recite the sonnet. It is inferred that Hannibal means it as a warning to Pazzi and also as a reference to Clarice, but I think it's one of the most darkly beautiful things I've ever heard, and I've wanted to use it in a fic ever since then. And then I was trying to figure out what to do to Marissa Schurr for her crime, and I realized it totally works for the Hannigram thing I'm doing. Allegra asks if Hannibal believes that from a single glance, love like that could exist. I suppose you could look back to my Hannibal interlude, that moment when he opens the office door and sees the real Will, and say this twisted little tale is my answer to that question. So, as always, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome, and enjoy.

P.S: Hannibal totally says he believes it too. Clarice who?


End file.
